Rose of Black Ash
by DarkFey
Summary: Forced to conform to a ruthless world that has no mercy for the weak, C. Cousland adapts to her harsh environment with an efficiency deserving both admiration and pity. M for violence.
1. Desolation

**Alistair**

"And _what_ do we have here?" Alistair, junior member of the Grey Wardens (and, being so, he felt it well and truly his duty to impress upon the newer recruits his awe-inspiring prowess within the order), enunciated slowly and clearly in his much used jovial—and somewhat smug—tone. He placed to each flinching shoulder a grip clad in sheltering, firm chainmail, and under his grasp the recruits blanched.

"Uh…" Jory began, as he and Daveth scrambled from their obviously gossiping positions. "We were… we were, um…"

"Have you seen the new recruit?" His companion interrupted. "The sentries spotted Duncan coming in with one by his side. Odd, that. Usually his forays are more successful. Only one recruit… anyways, they should be here any minute now." Surprised, for waywardness had been his only expectance, Alistair let go of his commanding vice upon the two men. Upon his release, Daveth fell into a nervous silence. Alistair stood straight, his loosely cropped hair catching the final, fading lights of dusk and lighting them into flame. A mischievous grin broke upon his face at the thought of having yet another inferior in rank to him, and, having witnessed the expression so often, Jory and Daveth thought no more of it.

"Well? Are you going to tell me about him or are you going to continue glancing sidelong at each other?" The sound of hooves trotting along well-worn stone saved them from answering, and Alistair turned about, the grin on his face widening as he saw Duncan. In many ways the eldest member of the Grey Wardens stationed at Ostagar was like the father he never really knew, despite the cliché of it. He broke into a run toward his direction, a hand rising into a wave.

His hand never made it to its greeting peak, nor his feet its destination. He froze, scarce a step taken, as he caught sight of the new Warden.

A wraith was as sufficient a word as he could use to describe him. Night embraced the black horse and its unearthly rider. In the fitful torchlight, the most he could make out was a figure, small for a male, adorned in cloth of darkness. The hood of his cloak that enveloped his body so that he could not make out the muscle or height of his stature obscured the features of his face, yet Alistair had the feeling that he was being watched.

And yet it was not mere attire that so disturbed Alistair; indeed, there were many a fearsome sight that fighting darkspawn could bring. No, it was the way that the figure carried himself, with the utmost stillness and silence of the grave, that brang shudders and chills through his body and his joy to a halt. He fought desperately to find the proper tone and phrase of welcome, but for all his struggling, his paralyzed mind refused to respond.

"This is the new Grey Warden recruit," Duncan said, his voice strong. He fell silent, as if expecting the persona of shadow to speak for himself. Of course, he remained silent, and all before him shifted awkwardly, the recruit excluded.

"Ah…" Duncan gestured over yonder shoulder. "You may set your possessions over there, by the Warden tents." That was odd: recruits, and especially army recruits, usually didn't get to take anything to the front. Alistair wondered what made him an exception. "One of the elves will take your horse. You have permission to rest until early morning. I will… send someone for you when I require your presence."

They waited uneasily until an elven servant came, reaching for the stallion's reins. The recruit's hand snapped out, his cloak flaring about his shoulders and yet somehow still managing to conceal his form, and caught the elf's wrist. Ironically, his gloves were contrastingly light enough to see flecks of dried blood on them. Alistair shuddered and averted his gaze.

Something was exchanged. A word or gesture, perhaps, or an _evil blood-spell of influence,_ as Alistair edited for haunting story fodder around a cask of ale. Whatever it was, Alistair didn't catch, but apparently the elf did, for he nodded shakily and pointed in the direction of where the horses rested. Without further ado, he released the elf and led his own horse away, the clip of his boots and of his mount's hooves the only sound in the silence.

The elf fled.

"Well, that was bloody uncomfortable," Alistair said, rubbing the back of his neck. Jory and Daveth had long since hidden themselves in the corners of the castle where they could whimper and whine fearfully in peace, and other than he, Duncan, and the casual person, the grounds were deserted in favor of bedrolls. Duncan sighed.

"Leave the recruit be; not even I have yet before seen such bitter grief as that afflicting the young Cousland."

He furrowed his brow. Cousland… ah, yes; a name of nobility that graced the lands of Highever. Other than pairing the word with a place, he knew of no other clues that might describe more of the enigmatic recruit. A shiver ran up his spine; he wasn't even sure he wanted to know more.

**Cousland**

At first, Ostagar was not impressive. She would have never have agreed to Duncan's deal if not for the fact that her elder brother, Fergus, would be here, and the fact that he had given her the ultimatum of choosing between dying with her family or joining the Wardens at her parents' behest did not endear him to her at all.

She rode in, oblivious to the looks ranging from sly looks to horrified staring, at his side, submerged in a well of desolate depression and torment. There was a coldness within her, so very everlastingly frigid that no fire could banish it, and so sinister that only vengeance and blood had a prayer of satisfying it.

It was his hair that drew her attention from her pit of loathing and misery; foolish as it was, it reminded her of a time when she took delight in such ostentatious fripperies like shoes and silks. A time before her parents died, a time before that pestilence-rotted _bastard_ Howe had _murdered_ everyone she knew and loved…

It was the color of subtle honey that burst in to an inferno of color when the sun struck it. The color lasted only for a moment, a brief flicker seen only from the corner of an eye, before the shade of night clouded it. There was an uncommon, masculine beauty in him that she had not expected to be seen in an army, and she locked gazes with him, safe to observe him within the inky blackness of her hood. Something akin, but not quite, to horror was clear in his features, and she felt despair began to seep seductively into her again.

It was clear that her presence was but another burden of this war, and she almost smiled in humorless amusement. She sat atop her horse with the ease bred into a noblewoman, cared for her long friend with the expertise of a practiced rider, and endured their scrutiny—covert or not—with the indifference of someone in mortal pain.

Taking the saddlebags to the site Duncan had directed her to sleep, she startled a group of men playing Wicked Grace. The cards fell from frozen fingers into their feeble campfire, and she waited patiently for someone to point to here where her tent was. When no offer became apparent, she picked one close-by that appealed to her in some unknown way and ducked inside, closing the tent flaps behind her.

Inside, she found that her mabari had already established his area of dominance and was sleeping peacefully on the narrow cot inside. Throwing the saddlebags on the floor, she unstrapped her sword and laid it next to the pack. It was hot enough that she considered taking off her armor, although she would sleep with her weapons close tonight. The tragedy Howe had inflicted on the Cousland family had taught her to never again take chances.

She wrapped her cloak about her. Using her dog as a pillow, she settled herself as comfortably as possible before willing oblivion to take her, avoiding the area her dog had shat in.

**Cousland**

It was the cry of pain that had replaced drunken whispers that roused her, and she sat up immediately. Her mabari whimpered and settled into deeper sleep, snoring softly as she snatched her dagger up. She lunged through the tent flaps, coming face to face with the exact same man that she had been enraptured by before.

"Wha—what are you doing in my tent?" She exhaled slowly when she saw that he had merely stepped into the trap she had safeguarding her sleep. It had bitten deep into his calf just above his boots, but she would be able to remove it without harm so long as he didn't move. "Bloody Andraste, do you even _know_ what the other Grey Wardens will say about this! No! I don't want to think about it!" The man ranted. She ignored him for the most part, prying the iron teeth out of his leg with her knife. He wavered and almost fell. "Ow!"

"Be silent, fool," she hissed, steadying him with a hand. "And if you do not want this trap to take off your foot, you will stand until I am finished." The damned warden almost fell again.

"What… you're a woman!" The sound of incredulity was easy enough to hear, but she knew all too well how his voice would turn into malicious hate. Most men were like that—Howe was like that.

She was up in an instant, the bloodied tip of her small weapon at his throat. He swallowed, the lump in his throat nicking the blade and drawing a drop of blood. She regarded him warily, drawing her hood down over her face ever so slightly.

"I—I mean, nothing wrong with being a woman, right? You're the first, I think, in the Wardens. Don't look at me like that, I'm not some perverted lecher." This last was said rapidly, and she thought she detected a blush in the dimness. "It's just… nice to have some soft company after brawling with the guys, you know? Making cookies, knitting mittens… No? Right, forget I said anything." She stared at him for a moment longer. _Soft company_? The man had certainly not grown up in her world, where women were as ruthless as their gender counterpart in both politics and battle. She said nothing, pulling her blade from his throat and returning her attention to the trap. She slammed the hilt into its base, and the trap popped open. The man let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, although I suppose you did spring that damned thing on me in the first place. I'm Alistair." He held out a hand that she ignored.

"Take off your pants." He gawked at her.

"Please tell me that you did _not _just say 'take off your pants'."

"Unless you want infection to set in, _you_ _will take off your pants_."

"Uh, um, no thanks." He stammered. The blush was evident. "I'm not so bad with a bandage that I'll strip in the middle of camp, thank you very much." She stood up fluidly, bringing her fingers to her lips. She blew an ear piercing whistle, and the snoring of her mabari stopped. A few moments later, the dog came dragging her pack on one foot, and the hilt of her sword in his mouth. She took it by the blade, wiping the spittle on the ground before grasping it and hoisting her pack over her shoulder. She brushed past him, her stride fluid and lithe.

"Just so this doesn't happen again, you should know that you don't get a tent until inducted into the Grey Wardens." He muttered. She paused, turning her head slightly to look at him over one shoulder.

"I am a Cousland, and even though forced into something I never wanted, I am still a Cousland." she said archly. "Does that not suffice?" Without waiting for an answer, she walked off. It took less than two strides for her and her faithful hound to fade into shadow, and Alistair stood there, staring at where but a moment ago what might have been the oddest encounter in his life had just occurred.

He recollected himself and entered his tent, only to find, to his utmost dismay, that the war hound had firmly established territory. After scooping out dog droppings and shed hair, he fell face-forward onto the sleeping mat. His nose encountered something soft and leathery, and he groaned, wanting nothing more than to forget the odd woman, who other than the surname he knew nothing about, and hauled himself up, pawing the source of the sensation. He lit a candle with the failing camp fire and brang the object close.

It was a small, thin book probably only containing a score of pages. He concluded it must have fallen out of her pack, and for a moment considered leaving the contents undisturbed, but his impish side of him won out, and he cracked the ancient leather cover open.

At first, the pages were blank, and he flipped through them rapidly. He came upon a name; _Ceostre Cousland, _and tried the exotic word upon his tongue. The next page had tidbits of random scraps on them; a ribbon here, a piece of metal there. He found a locket stained with blood and cracked it open, discovering a tiny portrait of a woman and small boy. There was a small phrase below, and his eyes strained out to make it. _Fergus' beloveds Oriana and Oren._ How odd. He flipped a page.

The pictures where copied larger here, in ink of black. A person had been added in, a man of dark hair and eyes. He supposed that would have been Fergus. The drawings were detailed and remarkably realistic, and he suddenly felt the depth of his intrusion. He considered stopping, but something made him go on. There was another drawing, this time with Fergus again, his "beloveds", and a handsome couple with graying hair. They were all poised together and smiling, and the scene brought its own smile to Alistair's face. He noticed that there was a lack of a particular element in each of the pictures: his fellow warden recruit was in none of them. The book grew odder and odder as he encountered a list of names written in messy script unusual from the fine, elaborate captions of before. He flipped more pages, and as he neared the end thought he would see naught more, but on the last page there was one sentence.

_Howe will die._

The page had splotches of ink—or blood?—and holes as though a pen had stabbed completely through the parchment. He shuddered and closed the book. He had been wrong to look inside the deeply private collection of memories, but at the very least he knew more about her. Cousland; Ceostre Cousland.

Sleep did not come easily to him that night, and he slept with the book at hand.

**Author's Note**

_So, in case you haven't noticed, I'm postponing my DA2 fan fiction until inspiration strikes. It was unoriginal and unappealing after the initial chapters. Sorry! I just think that this one is so much more… innovative. I'm going to go ahead and finish up this chapter lest it become too long… _

_Take off the pants… :3 _


	2. Hope

**Author's Note**

_May I have an opinion if the violence in this is worthy of an M rating? I have the eternal problem of teetering between T and M… Shrug. :)_

**Cousland**

Rather than seek out a place to rest her head, Ceostre bid her hound to silence and settled her pack before him. The mabari let out a small whine, his great dark eyes regarding her with a very human expression. They knew each other so well—had gone through hell together and returned side by side—that words were not needed between them.

She considered her armor. Its clinking would no doubt reveal her presence, and if all went well she would not need it. She sheathed several knives about her person, and drew her cloak tight against her form. She patted the hound's neck and chest before rising from her kneel in one fluid motion, stalking off into the shadow.

She envisioned the relief map of that she had quickly calculated from her brief view at Ostagar. Amongst blade work, horse riding, house management, conduct, politicking, and other things, the Cousland nobles had been trained to access the area and situation in an instant and how to best apply their skills in the event. And yet, none of them, from kitchen servant to Teryn of Highever, had foreseen Howe's betrayal. Sweet whispers of blood and sorrow tormented her, and she bowed her head for a moment before blocking them out and moving in the direction of the army officers' tents.

She passed the small sentry posts consisting of solitary chairs and private campfires, usually only manned by one or two soldiers, with the ease of a natural acrobat. Not a hair stirred as she crossed the encampment, her boots deathly silent against the soft earth—muddy from the recent rains—and occasional patches of weathered paving. In all honesty, most of her surreptitiousness was redundant. To the casual eye, she was merely another fellow soldier to seek solace from darkspawn-riddled terror in the stars.

As she neared the part of the camp where officers of lesser importance slept, the guard became less drunk and more wary. She passed them like a breath through fangs, and picked a tent that seemed not so vital that she would be caught, yet would likely keep records of the information she sought. Ceostre paused for a moment to ascertain that the guard would not see her, then slipped into the tent.

There was no one inside, and she didn't know whether to bless or curse the Maker. The tent's inhabitant could return at anytime, and she scanned its contents rapidly. There was a small chest; she reached into her hood and pulled a hairpin out, bending it into proper form. The lock was well-made, but not difficult in the slightest, and she smiled for a moment as the final tumbler fell in place. Her delight faded as she quickly realized that the chest, save for objects of little importance to her—a picture here, a coin there—was empty of value.

So continued this pattern, until Ceostre grew slightly chagrined. Such small annoyance in such a bleak core of a person was akin to raging frustration, and she found herself glancing from time to time to the slowly lightening sky. Perhaps it was this that caused her to falter, a casual misstep or scruff of a boot, but whatever the reason, she found herself unexpectedly surrounded by guards.

"What's this? A scavenger amongst the corpse of an army? Well, I got something to tell you, you thieving wretch; the darkspawn don't have us yet." A sword was pointed at her, and she waited patiently for them to arrest her. She contemplated killing them, but her search was long fruitless, and she surmised that she would be taken to someone of importance who knew what she wanted.

"Now wait just a minute," someone said in a slight country drawl that he could not prevent, "What would a scoundrel like 'im be doing in this part of the encampment? Looks to me like 'e's a spy."

"You idiot! The darkspawn don't have spies!"

"Yeah, yeah, but who's to say that the Orlesians don't have 'em?"

"Shut up, you two. We follow standard procedure." The man prepared to swing his sword. Ceostre waited patiently.

"Woah there, let's not be hasty. Maybe the normal procedure is to kill a thief, but what about a spy?"

"Thieves, spies, bloody darkspawn, they're all the same. I say we kill him."

"Don't they torture 'em spies before killing 'em?"

"Shut up!"

"Gentlemen," she said, her tone bored and irritated at the same time. "I propose a third option. Perhaps you would like to bind my hands and take me to the leader of your troop?"

"Maker's Breath! It's a woman! What do we do now?"

"Well, all I know is that there are plenty of cold bedrolls tonight…"

"You stupid ass! She's still a spy, not some army whore!"

This was getting her nowhere. She was reluctant to shed blood and blacken her reputation, but these fools would bicker until sunrise. She made a scene of drawing one of her knives, the steel singing as it was pulled from its sheath. With the hilt in her hand, a familiar shade of red veiled her eyes. She suppressed the blood-lust as she had done with increasing difficulty since the defilement of Highever, and shifted into feral crouch. That was all the incentive that the idiots needed to attack.

One of them brought a long two-handed sword over his head. Irrational and clumsy. She took a step back, the sword raising a tiny cloud of dust and earth as it slammed into the earth before her. Obviously no one had ever told him the difference between a maul and a real weapon. She gripped her dagger with her teeth and sprang forward, running up the blade in one step. The soles of her boots protected her, but she feared that they would no longer be suitable for long treks. She nimbly stepped on the hilt and lunged at him, the sword sinking into the dirt. Grasping his shoulders and vaulting herself over him, she took advantage of her momentum and flipped him over her head, crouching as she did so. As he hit the ground with a thud, she leapt on his back, resembling a protective lioness over her kill, and took the knife from her lips, holding it to the back of his neck. The fight was over before the man under her thrall even had a chance to blink.

"Cease," she barked to the rest of the stunned group. "Or may this man's life be forfeit."

"Aw, Maker," the country one moaned. "What are we gonna do now?"

"_Shut up!_"

"Indeed," Ceostre hissed, fighting back the desperate urge to kill them all. "Unbuckle your sword belts and discard them. _Now, _gentlemen. I'm not a patient woman." They complied reluctantly. Below her, the man tried to buck her off. She unleashed a devastating blow to the back of his head with her free hand and suppressed a snarl, a monstrous part of her reveling in the stinging of her knuckles and hungering for release. She inhaled slowly and reined it in. _That is for Howe, and Howe exclusively. _

"What d'ya want?" She opened her eyes and looked up.

"What do you know of a man by the surname Cousland?"

"Never heard of 'im." he said nervously.

"I know him," someone else offered. Ceostre smiled; she had her doubts about why such guards of low intelligence and skill would be about here, but at least one of them kept his wits about him. "He was sent scouting in the Korcari Wilds a few days ago. Hasn't shown up since." She clenched her teeth together and barely suppressed a scream.

"Don't lie to me. A man of his rank wouldn't be scouting." The men exchanged nervous glances. One of the braver ones sized her up.

"What's he to you?" The blood pounded in her temples, her knuckles white against the black leather-wrapped hilt of her tiny weapon.

_Claw their hearts from their chests. Crush their thick-headed skulls. Drink their blood._ She obeyed, digging her knife deep into the nape of his neck before lunging at them. Despite the voice commanding her to slaughter them all, she did not fully appease it, as she reverted to her old habit of silent and deadly efficiency. They fell before her as she cut through them like a knife through butter. Common sense made her spare one, and she hooked an elbow about his throat while poking her dagger in his side.

"Confess the truth," she murmured in his ear as he struggled for breath, "and you may yet have a painless death."

"You'll pay for this, you treacherous bitch." He managed, which was quite a feat considering he was turning an uncomely shade of purple. He even spat, although with her behind him it didn't exactly work. She released her chokehold and kicked him to the ground. He grasped her boot and pulled her down, and she stabbed his shoulder in response. He let out a shout of pain before she slammed her hand over his mouth, and she cursed.

"Going… going to die…" he mumbled with eyes triumphant. Her head whipped up, her eyes darting as men roused from their bedrolls. She returned her gaze to the man and bared her teeth.

"You're right. You _are _going to die." She said, pulling her hood back. Reaching down with her blade in her hand, he let out a gurgling scream as a spray of blood splattered her face.

She stood in all her bloodied glory, waiting warily as she was surrounded. She wasn't sure if she would be captured or killed. With swords in both her hands she could have crippled any army and handed victory to the darkspawn, but her chances were small with only knives secreted about her person. She hesitated for a moment before dropping her knife.

Someone stole forth from behind her and brought their sword hilt upon her skull. She supposed she deserved that. As she crumpled to the ground, she faced the reality that she just didn't care.

**Cousland**

Waken by a dull, yet rapidly growing, pain in the back of her head, Ceostre stirred to the sound of a concerned voice. She assumed, with the rickety motion of the room and the sound of slowly turning wheels, that she was either drunk or in a wagon, and groaned.

"Cece?" Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked upwards only to be stopped by thick manacles pinning her wrists down. Ignoring the pain that lanced through her skull, she sought out the source of the voice. She glimpsed an ill-shaven figure shackled similarly and froze.

"Fergus?" she whispered hesitantly.

"Cece… Oh, Andraste, I thought you…" her brother swallowed and stopped, unable to continue.

"You know what happened, then?" He nodded, closing his eyes briefly. She shook her tangled and blood-encrusted hair out and worked a pin in her mouth while he mustered his strength.

"The soldiers Howe had donated beforehand into my ranks revealed themselves as we stepped just off the Imperial Highway. My men's rations had been laced with poison and the ale dosed." He gestured about him. "And thus, this." She paused in her chewing of the hairpin.

"Where exactly is this?" She pursed the pin between her lips and fiddled with the lock on her cuffs.

"We're surrounded by a hundred or so of those loyal to Howe north of Ostagar but south of said road. Speaking of which, how did you… That is, I assumed you reached Ostagar?"

Her restraints loosened, and she slipped her hands from them. Crawling over to him, she began working on his. She noticed rings of chafing, bloody flesh on his wrists and tsked, nodding.

"Duncan, the Grey Warden; you remember him? At our parent's behest, he performed the Right of Conscription on me and helped me escape."

"Then that is fortunate. You are lucky to have been accepted in an order where legend has originated." She smiled bitterly and pulled the handcuffs from him, but did not argue.

"Perhaps. You know of Highever's fate?" His jaw worked and he nodded once, and Ceostre wrapped her arms around him.

"Will you not weep?" She asked when it became apparent of his stoicism. He gave a tight smile.

"Weeping is a luxury that we cannot afford at the moment. Besides, I have done nothing but cry since our demise. And yet, here my little sister is," He ruffled her hair affectionately. "And already she has managed to relieve us of our bonds."

"You flatter me," she said, sitting up, her brows creased slightly. "I am no heroine. In truth, I have not… dealt with it very well." _Dealt with it? That is laughable. I have slaughtered anyone who crossed my path and wallowed in wretchedness,_ she thought. "I am only doing what I was taught to do." He regarded her funnily and flexed his hands, twisting them to and fro, shrugging.

"No worse than I, I suppose. You have a plan, I take it?"

"I… it should take us a few hours with horses to reach Ostagar, maybe a day or two on foot. The thing is… when I was captured it was near the officers' tents in the encampment," He listened gravely and did not offer judgment as to what she was doing in such a place. "by men in standard army regalia." Fergus paled.

"I still do not understand what Howe meant by attacking the estate," he said, "but whatever his motivation he is no longer a suitable ally for King Cailan. You must bring word to him—"

"_We_ must bring word to him." She insisted, glaring at him.

"Cece…"

"Are you ill? Injured?" Her voice was unsteady, and she cursed it. He gestured to his side, and, peering carefully, she saw through a hole in his thread-bare shirt a festering stab wound.

"Maker, this just gets better and better." Her attempt at humor fell flat, but for the first time in days it was genuine. She suddenly felt almost whole inside at the sight of her elder brother, a fragile richness that could be shattered at any moment. Nevertheless, he smiled.

"Can you walk?"

"I fear what will happen if I should prove unable." He replied, winking. She sighed. Her weapons and knife-riddled clothing had been taken and spread through Howe's men, no doubt, and she chafed at the fact that she would have to replace Cousland-made equipment for the ability of a lesser smith and seamstress. She had been provided with a horrible-quality dress, the kind a peasant might wear, and she tore with ease strips to bind his wound. She had him take off his shirt and put it back on once she was done.

"Thank you. Stay here while I deal with the guards." He went despite her protests, stating that for all his wounds and her well-performed nursing he was most certainly _not_ a cripple, and had leapt through the wagon's back flaps before she could so much plant a fist in his shirt. She fumed for a moment and braced herself as the wagon came to a lurching halt, then ran after him. As she stepped out of the wagon, she came face to face with Fergus, and he shoved a handful of blood-stained chainmail in her face.

"Put this on," he said. "We don't have a lot of time."

"I never would have guessed," she huffed, throwing her arms through its sleeves and wrapping the terrible-fitting sword belt about her waist several times. He jabbed some weapons in their sheaths and tugged her arm, and then they were sprinting for their lives. Already men were stirring and pointing, and she mouthed some very foul expletives.

"Where are the fucking horses?" She hissed, and he swerved direction so that she stumbled and nearly tripped. His grip kept her going, and what seemed like the whole hundred traitors were hot on their heels.

She desperately wished for her vials of nasty fumes and poisons, but that was not to be the case. Fergus drew his long sword, and with impressive strength broke a path through the wall of soldiers before him. She narrowly dodged a swipe at her head, and they came in sight of the steeds. Her regard for the Maker improved dramatically as she saw they were saddled and bridled, and they ran for all they were worth.

She plucked two throwing knives from her belt and hurled them at the riders of the closest mounts, and Fergus pushed them back while she scrambled on top. She then proceeded to empty nearly all of her throwing arsenal in the bodies of their pursuers while Fergus claimed his own, and then she lashed the reins against her horse. The beasts shot forward, and with grim determination, the Cousland siblings made a break for the tree line.


	3. Salvation

**Alistair**

"Warden?" The enquiry elicited a muffled groan as Alistair flung an arm over his face, which the messenger took for a dismissal. "My apologies, but Sir Duncan requires your presence." He said before leaving. Alistair sat up, his hair fluffed in comical disarray; his head throbbed from free avail of the brew flowing about the tents, and his leg ached severely. He rolled his pants up to his knee and buried his face in his palm. Of course, amid his semi-drunken stupor and his ponderings of the enigmatic Ceostre, he would forget to treat his leg. What a laugh she would have when she realized the depths of his idiocy—that was, if such a sinister figure was capable of the humanity in laughter.

He rummaged in his pack for his neat roll of linen. Unwinding a suitable length, he severed the ribbon from its origins and wrapped it about his calf. _There,_ he thought proudly, running a hand through his hair. He looked sadly at it in his reflection from the shine of his blade and sheathed it, donning a light set of armor and girding his sword belt. He surveyed the insides of his tent from his crouched position (the lack of sufficient height made it impossible to stand), and his eye caught the thin, puny, decrepit book in its lonely corner. Sighing, he picked it up and was at a loss. After a moment, he tucked it into his belt and resolved to return it to its owner as was right and just. His decision to avoid telling her he had oh-so-innocently peeked through it was another matter entirely, and he sauntered from his tent with his conscience burdened.

"Alistair," Duncan nodded in greeting as he drew near. Jory and Daveth stood by his side looking rather bored, and Alistair wondered how long they had been standing there. He shifted his weight to his right foot and stood there, waiting for Duncan to instigate conversation. When it became apparent that no statement was coming forthwith, he took the initiative.

"Are we waiting on someone?" he questioned. Duncan affirmed his suspicions.

"Yes. The new recruit has yet to make an appearance." His eyebrows shot up. Not only did she get to bring along a journal and who knows what else, she got to sleep in? That was hardly fair, and he grumbled under his breath. Women—and especially that of the nobility—always got it easy. Despite her fine weaponry and scary-sinister look, he doubted she would be much help in a real battle with darkspawn attempting to rip off her face, and gleefully imagined her fending them off with flowers and shouts of "Peace!"

"Perhaps another messenger should be sent?" suggested Daveth. Duncan appeared hesitant.

"I will go," Alistair offered. He wondered for a moment why his tongue cursed him thus, and concluded that he did it for Duncan.

"Very well. Make haste, Alistair; you know as well as I that the preparations for the Joining will take most of the day. Return to me once you have found her." Grinning at the other recruits' discomfort at the apparent gender of their new companion, he bowed slightly before making his way back to the general area where the Wardens slept.

After much arduous search, he determined that she was no longer there, and his heart sank at the possibility of going through all of the massive army just to find one increasingly, maddeningly, exasperatingly bothersome recruit. He instead decided to return to Duncan empty-handed (lest he waste the scarce time they had for the Joining), and his regard for the enigmatic Ceostre lessened as he mused over the depth of her betrayal to Ferelden by spurning the honor of becoming accepted within the ranks of the Grey Wardens. His furrowed brows broodingly low and his lips thinned in disapproval, his divine displeasure became distracted by a commotion at the mabari pound. He drifted over to the side of a very annoyed-looking hound keeper, and queried about the disorder.

"We've got an ill-disciplined mabari that showed up in the middle of the night, of all things. Took four servants, three of whom were _elves,_ to calm him, and even then he wouldn't accept any food." The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the keeper led him to a secluded corner and gestured at a feral-looking war dog. "If you ask me, he's aching for his owner. Awful people like that who abandon their dogs shouldn't have any. Funny thing is, though, he's got this bag and a couple of pointy blades with him…"

Alistair barely listened as the mabari fixed his fearsome gaze on him. The hound growled menacingly as he got too close, and the keeper grabbed his arm.

"You can't go in there! He'll kill you!" Alistair ignored him and shook his grip from his arm. He stopped at a reasonable distance and crouched, keeping his gaze locked with the mabari. Slowly, he pulled the book from his belt and showed it to the hound before tossing it to him. A startled look gleamed in his eyes before the dog leapt and caught the book with his teeth. Alistair winced at the amount of slobber on it, but noticed that the mabari kept his fangs about the book with precision and care. His suspicions were contented as a happy purring noise emitted from the hound; this the mabari he had seen follow Ceostre.

The only thing he didn't understand was why she would leave him behind. Surely if she planned to abandon the front and desert she would have taken him? An apprehensive look crossed his face as he considered the possibilities that could harm a noble woman in the midst of an army, and he motioned for the dog to follow. He jerked up rapidly and started to run from the kennel, but a whine from the hound stopped him.

Alistair looked back and saw that the mabari was holding his paw out. There was a satchel tied about his foot, and he quickly undid the knot. The mabari nosed his hand, and he opened the bag so that the hound could drop the book inside. After a moment, he tied the pack to his belt. When he looked up, the mabari had acquired a sword, hilt locked securely in his jaws. He let out a sigh and took that as well, depositing it in a sheath on his back before he reported the worrisome situation to Duncan.

As he sprinted away, the hound at his heels, the dog-keeper stared at them for quite awhile. Some time later, he shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal.

Alistair's breathing was ever so slightly laden with exertion by the time he reached Duncan, whose eyebrows rose hopefully.

"I see you have returned with a mabari." There was no hint of disappointment, humor, or sign of irritation, but merely expectancy. Alistair appreciated it, and nodded.

"It's hers," he said. "I believe that she wouldn't have parted with him so long willingly, and that she may be threatened." Duncan rubbed his chin in contemplation, and motioned for Jory and Daveth to give them some room to speak privately.

"I will beseech King Cailan to seek answers from his generals." Alistair opened his mouth in protest, but Duncan stopped him sternly. "Unfortunately, there is not much more I can do. Besides," His eyes softened, "I have the utmost faith in the Wardens' abilities in combat. Why else do you think I would have brought Ceostre if not for her," he paused, eyes twinkling, "_finesse_ in battle? She will take care of herself." Appropriately chastised, Alistair bowed his head and colored, wondering if his thoughts were so apparent.

"However, it is to my deepest disappointment that unless she chooses to miraculously return her induction into the Grey Wardens will be delayed."

"Wait. 'Chooses'?" Alistair said, wondering at the phrasing. Duncan paused.

"She didn't want to be here. Only the fact that she was forced to choose between dying valiantly with her people or watch her life burn and survive at her parents'—and the Right of Conscription's—behest has made her come this far." Duncan shrugged while Alistair gaped at him. "She may have even had some ulterior motive as to why she came here. It is a story she may or may not choose to share, just as she may choose whether to come back or forge her own path."

"But—that is against… I mean, there is a reason it's called the _Right_ of Conscription."

"Yes. I suspected she would try to outwit the law. No matter; if she does not return, she will be hunted as a deserter." His jaw dropped yet lower, and the mabari barked fiercely.

"As I was saying, if I am indisposed at the time, the Grey Wardens must do anything and everything to perform the Joining on her. She will be invaluable to our assets." Alistair frowned. Duncan beckoned Jory and Daveth over while he struggled to keep pace with him. _Indisposed?_

"Today you will be heading into the Kocari Wilds. Three vials of darkspawn blood are required for the Joining." Jory and Daveth glanced at each other nervously. "There are also scrolls—treaties of assistance promised to aid the Grey Wardens, left behind in the ruins of a tower once inhabited by our order. I suspect it may be a good idea to once again have these in our possession." He dismissed them with a formal bow and a _Yes, Jory_ (who apparently had a healthy fascination with puppies),_ you may take the dog with you._

Alistair led them from the encampment in a daze as he chewed over his odd morning. Ever since the Cousland had shown up, his life had been nothing but trouble. He closed his eyes and focused on breathing for a while before he prepared to hack away at Andraste-knows-what the forest would throw at them.

After being drenched in wolf, darkspawn, and ogre blood, Alistair leaned wearily on his blade and took the opportunity to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He attempted to clean the gore off his gloves before pulling out his map. Duncan had marked the location on it, and they were getting close. He rolled it up and put it away, waving the recruits forward, when an odd sound reached his ears. He frowned; it almost sounded like hooves… Surely no rider would gallop recklessly through this part of the Wilds, where the occasional root hidden by fetid waters would snap a fetlock and bogs would suck in even the most skilled and calm horse?

They came into view; too far away to make out particular features, but he could see the horse was lathered and tiring rapidly. Upon its heels came a horde of darkspawn, and it did not take much to figure that the horse was gone any moment now and they would be eaten alive.

"Oh _shit._" Daveth said, effectively voicing everyone's thoughts. Without further ado, Alistair picked up his sword and darted forward. The horse failed and crumpled to the ground, and the _riders_—he could see that there were two now—were flung off. One lay unmoving on the ground; the other sprang up a moment before the darkspawn overwhelmed them. He made himself run faster, forcing his fatigued muscles to move, and his feet barely touched the ground as he hurtled towards them. With a sinking feeling, he knew he was going to be too late; regardless, he smashed into the crowd shield first, his sword and rage close behind.

With each horror felled, the darkspawn increase thrice-fold, and soon he was in danger of being engulfed in the never ending tide. He knew naught of the state his companions were in; his mind became blank save for the repetition of the combat forms drilled into his head. _Block, lunge, stab. Twist, dodge, bash. Parry, kick, disarm. Kill._

"Alistair!" A feminine voice—something that had no place in this world of battle—shouted. "Give me a weapon!" _Who..? _Somewhere in the fray a frenzied barking ensued, and he had a feeling that he knew very well who the voice belonged to. It distracted him, and a darkspawn blade slipped under his guard, taking him in his gut. A breathless, wordless cry of pain passed his lips as he fell, stunned. _Let nothing, not even pain, divert your attention in the field of mêlée,_ the ghost of Duncan reprimanded as his eyes closed. He struggled to stand, struggled to keep on fighting, but the tearing of his flesh as the hurlock above him sank its sword a teensy bit deeper kept him entranced by the agony. It was all he could do to keep it from leaning its full weight into the blade, and he clenched his teeth in exertion.

The tip of a boot too large for her slammed into the hurlock's jaw, knocking it flat on its back. He locked gazes for a moment with her infuriated eyes before Ceostre dodged the flailing darkspawn's sword and crushed its throat with her foot.

"_Get up or give me your sword!"_ She shouted, fending off the darkspawn with her sheer self. She fought with a style he had never seen before; twirling and twisting, she became an instrument of pure killing as she leaped about. She served as a massive distraction, but few of her blows were accurately fatal given the armor of her terrifying opponents. Still, no blade or mace was able to touch her, and many came stumbling away with a hand to the throat or blood seeping from their bare heads.

He stared at her, fascinated, and she let out a stream of curses before flipping over to him. She loomed over him for a moment, the sun gleaming a chestnut tint—or was that blood?—in her mahogany hair. Her livid eyes set above a smattering of freckles dappling white skin were of an arresting, electric blue, a hue found only in the heart of a flame searing through crystal, and he was unable to assist her, trapped in the intense gaze as he was. She wrenched the sword from his frozen hand and then she was truly death incarnate.

Alistair understood what Duncan had meant when he applied the word finesse to her. He silently took her out of the "Cookies, Cheeses, Frilly Lady Flowers" section of his brain and put her in the "Swooping, Dangerous People—That—Might—Turn—Me—Into—A—Frog" section. Scarce a minute passed before all the darkspawn were dead, and he carefully propped himself on an elbow. Ceostre dropped his blood-coated sword and ran past him. He reached for it, clutching his stomach, when she appeared before him again.

"Give me a health poultice." she demanded, her voice soft yet unyielding. He stared at her for a few moments, and she gestured impatiently. He cleared his throat and reached for the pack attached to his belt, and pulled one out. She snatched it from her hand and stalked away, and with her mabari ran after her joyously. He pulled another one out and took a few sips, wincing as the warm slime went down. The wound at his midsection knitted cleanly, and he exhaled relieved, corking the potion and eyeing Jory as he pawed at Daveth's fallen form.

"Fergus? Come, Love." Ceostre murmured behind him. As he made to stand, he froze for a moment. _Fergus… the name from the journal?_ He moved to Daveth's side as he convulsed, keeping an eye on her as he inspected the wound. Already the edges of the gash were blackening, and he sighed. It was the taint.

He heard footsteps and turned his head slightly. Ceostre, despite her long limbs and awkwardly tall stature, was a scrap of a woman under the arm of Fergus, who leaned heavily on her and her faithful mabari for support. If not for the blood, unshaven state, and the weariness under his eyes, he was a perfect replica of the pictures he had seen in her journal. Having seen her ferocity in combat, he was suddenly glad he had slipped it back in her pack. He only hoped that her mabari didn't tip her off.

"His injury," Ceostre addressed him. "It will not heal?" Alistair shook his head.

"It's the darkspawn taint," he explained. "They coat their weapons in their blood before battle. It's poison to us. Daveth, here, will probably last a few hours before turns into a mad, raving ghoul hungering for human flesh." His light, jovial tone faded as he saw Fergus touch a similar, blackening cut with his knuckle on Ceostre's cheek. She pressed her face momentarily into his hand before turning to him.

"You," she said, "You were impaled on the tainted blade, and yet here you still stand. Are you not affected?"

"It's part of being a Grey Warden. I—"

"Then let us move on," Fergus said. "I assume you have a purpose in being out here. If it is possible we will assist with your mission and make a rapid return to Ostagar so that my sister's and your comrade's lives may be preserved. You will induct them, yes?"

"Well, I—er, not me personally, but yes—"

"Then let us move. We're wasting time here." Fergus said. Alistair nodded and bound Daveth's wound. He gave his care unto Jory, who grumbled a bit before hoisting him on his shoulder. He divested most of their weapons and passed them to the siblings. Fergus armed himself well, while Ceostre stood there, ill at ease.

"If I am not mistaken, that is my sword bound to your back, Alistair. Might I inquire as to how you obtained it, and implore its return?" He blinked and handed it to her.

"Um, the dog—"

Her mabari, chagrined at having being ignored for quite awhile, barked and paraded about. Ceostre smiled wanly and rubbed the dog with her hand, which quieted at her touch. She even chuckled a bit, and Alistair was in awe how different the woman before him and the dark wraith he had been scared out of his wits by not a full day before seemed.

She thanked him with a tiny salute. "Lead on, sir Grey Warden."

**Author's Note**

_Gah! I'm a bad, bad person... I wanted to get this posted but I kept on spying little mistakes so I kept on taking down the chapter, editing, and posting it back. I'm sorry! I won't touch it again. :(_


	4. Quarrels

**Alistair**

He had briefly entertained the idea that with Daveth unable to fight and Jory encumbered with him they would perhaps encounter a greater difficulty in dealing with the darkspawn, but his doubts were in vain. The Cousland siblings more than made up for them, and Alistair often found himself assisting with Daveth's weight while they stole forward, clearing a path between whatever foe lay in wait. There was a confidence between them that even included the dog, and Alistair was a bit bothered that a dog was allowed where he was excluded. He attempted to brush away such odd feelings, and, not entirely successful, made do with conversation.

His fumbling words and jokes made both Fergus and Ceostre regard him strangely, and he shut his mouth and looked away. His questions were spurned away with a statement of how little time they had. He even gave Ceostre her pack, which resulted in a suspicious scrutiny and silence that made him tense. The mabari turned out to be the most receptive of his attentions, barking and wagging his tail, although that could have been attributed to his mere, incandescent elation at being in the presence of his mistress once again. He finally gave up and stuck to guarding Jory and Daveth from the darkspawn that mostly never reached them.

He was grateful when they reached the "tower" that supposedly held the treaties. No longer properly recognized as a structure, the ruins were ancient and weathered. He came forward and cast his eyes about for anything that might contain them. He sighed, and was surprised when Ceostre remarked on it.

"You didn't honestly expect to waltz in and find them on a golden pedestal, did you?" He reddened in obvious embarrassment, and, being somewhat staggered that she was indeed capable of humor and having no witty comeback, stood there awkwardly with his face heated.

"Indeed," With the archaic accent came a voice that he was not familiar with, and his blade was already poised at the source within an instant. It was a woman—with feral, golden eyes and hair of onyx piled carelessly on her head—that had the skimpiest piece of clothing he had ever seen donned. It made him flush even more, though he averted neither gaze nor sword. She studied each and every one of them, and as her frightful gaze fell upon him he held the sword a bit higher.

"Put your stick down, foolish man," she said, leaving him no doubt whatsoever that she was capable of smiting them with whatever unholy powers she possessed in an instant, and that she refrained from doing so only because of twisted humor.

"It's the Witch of the Wilds!" Jory gasped, invoking the protection of the Maker with his free hand. "She'll turn us into toads and stew us!" Her eyes flared in angry indignation, and she walked closer from her elevated standing, her heels clipping against the masonry of the shattered tower.

"Such foolish fancies," she said, her eyes cooling slightly. She came to a pause before the Couslands, regarding them with open curiosity. "I have watched your progress for quite some time. The realm of men and politics I do not care for, but know that should you remain in the Wilds and continue to stoke my favor and bemusement, you will not come to harm from them. The darkspawn, I cannot answer for."

"You have our thanks," Ceostre said, inclining her head graciously. "I am Ceostre, Cousland if that pertains meaning here. This is my brother, Fergus. That is Alistair, Jory, Daveth, and my mabari imprint. We wondered why they did not pursue us far into the swamps, and are indebted to you for your interference." Fergus repeated her gesture, and Alistair stared at them in confusion and awe.

"You're going over _courtesies_ with her? She's Chasind!"

"You fear barbarians will swoop upon you?" She said, switching her gaze to him and chuckling.

"Yes. _Swooping. Is. Bad_." he said slowly, enunciating every word as though she were a simpleton. He felt her threatening gaze intensely and the subtle feather-light touch of Ceostre's irritation, and he shut up.

"Perhaps manners are something you should learn to value," she said, "seeing as you have so little." She brushed him aside like a fly and addressed the siblings once more.

"As you have introduced yourselves, I shall reply in kind. My name is Morrigan. Now," she stared at Alistair once more. "What is your purpose here, foolish man?"

"We're Grey Wardens. We seek treaties of old sealed with the insignia of our ranks."

"I see." she said simply, and Alistair had a feeling she knew exactly what they were here for.

"You stole them, you… some kind of… sneaky… witch-thief!" he accused. She raised an eyebrow.

"_I_ did not take them. My mother removed them once the enchantment guarding them faded. She has since kept them under her guard." Alistair opened his mouth, but Ceostre's glare kept him silent.

"Then we owe you our thanks once again," Fergus said. Morrigan demurred, stating that it was merely the practical thing to do.

"Would you be able to take us to your mother?" Ceostre inquired. Morrigan nodded, beckoning for them to follow.

"Polite and sensible; I like you two. It must be something that runs in the Cousland blood, as opposed to the peasant stock they breed about here." Alistair gritted his teeth at the barb he felt keenly, despite having been born far north, and grumbled under his breath as they were led across half the marsh to wherever her mother was. He only hoped that they would be done with it soon.

Morrigan's mother, Flemeth, seemed nice—as nice as a crazy old batty witch could be. He fumed quietly while Ceostre did most of the talking (with Fergus inserting a compliment or two and Jory a few fearful accusations), and they received the treaties. Ceostre passed him the documents without protest, and with some wry Mother-Daughter conversation, they were off, following Morrigan as she escorted them at her mother's command.

Some time later, they reached Ostagar. Morrigan gravely accepted yet another "Thank you" from the Couslands before stalking away. Alistair immediately went off to find Duncan, leaving the four—five, if one counted the dog—to their devices. He found Duncan near his tent, and presented the treaties and vials of blood.

"Well, you've managed to fulfill my requests, but it seems as though you've lost the recruits." Duncan said humorously.

"Er, I—I…" Alistair mentally kicked himself. "Ah, Ceo—I mean, the Cousland girl returned with her brother." He reported their haste to reach Ostagar and the still unknown cause of her disappearance. Duncan rubbed his chin for a moment.

"Bring the recruits to me for the Joining. We will talk about this afterwards."

**Cousland**

She watched Alistair walk off, still several shades too pink from the occasional insult tossed his way by Morrigan. She supposed she should have defended him, with what him being her Grey Warden superior, but in all honesty she was tired to the bone and could hardly summon the energy to walk. She and Fergus had ridden hard since before the sun had risen, and the taint, as he had called it, did not seem to help. He had not explained its symptoms, merely its eventual outcome, but Ceostre noted them nevertheless.

Her veins outwards from the single cut on her cheek grew progressively darker, frightening against the pale shade of her skin. Her eyelids felt heavy, a hollow ache grew in the pit of her stomach, and her fingers twitched. A thousand effects all ascribed to one: pain. She ignored it with ease, but she noticed that the ache in her body had increased in the short time that had passed since she had been cut. She could only wonder at the agony Daveth must be in, and was glad he had passed into some sort of semi-unconsciousness.

They took him to the closest healer, despite Alistair's protestations that the taint would be irreversible. It was not that she doubted him; it was merely that blood loss could have proven as fatal as darkspawn infection. An elderly mage by the name of Wynne sealed his wound, and a passing Chantry priest even invoked a prayer for him.

Fergus came to her side as she gazed upon Daveth, wrapping an arm about her shoulder. They stayed like that for some time.

"I need to talk to you," he finally said. She looked at him questioningly. "I admit I am a bit confused as to what my intentions will be once this is all over."

"Surely the king will not allow such injustice in his lands. Highever will be restored, and Howe will suffer." She suppressed a hiss, and was not surprised that although finding her brother and ensuring his safety had relieved some of her grief, the longing to torture Howe in every method known to man had not eased. Despite her weariness, her hands suddenly ached to feel the brutality she had stored up for him, and she flexed them inconspicuously.

"Indeed, but I was musing the possibility of joining the Grey Wardens, if Duncan will agree." She regarded him thoughtfully.

"I would not appear to spurn your company brother, but becoming a Warden might affect your obligations to our home. So much has ascended to legend that it is impossible to know what is real and what is pure fantasy, and I am loathe to expose you to any further danger."

"A prudent observation; you will address this to Duncan?"

"Yes." She appeared hesitant. "The Grey Wardens are revered enough to seek audience with King Cailan, but I admit a selfishness in letting him reposition you. Perhaps joining will be a good idea."

Fergus chuckled. "Maker forbid I be out of the sight of my protective lioness of a sister." She punched his shoulder lightly, ignoring the distressed thoughts of losing him and the sudden lump in her throat. He was not so old and lacking the qualities of a father—and both not so shattered beyond healing and laughter—to have forgotten how to behave youthfully, and so Fergus dodged her fist, skidding several paces to her left. She darted after him, a giggle escaping her usually dour and wary self.

So it was when Alistair finally found them, looking flustered and annoyed, they were in the familiar dance of young, careless children. Alistair averted his gaze, the blush—quite comely, really, if one observed him with a studied eye—present yet again, clearing his throat. Distracted by the sound, Fergus paused in his running, and she took the opportunity to pounce on his back. He staggered, foolish grins on their faces, but his prowess as a skilled fighter—second only to his sister—was not overstated and he did not fall.

Alistair blinked once, then twice, as if he found it hard to believe they were acting as such, but she didn't give a damn. It had finally sunk into her that she had found Fergus and had got him to the relative safety of Ostagar, and elation burned away most of her—taint inspired or not—fatigue.

"Yes, Sir Warden?" She said politely, observing the shade of his ruddy cheeks. They would make for great conversation around a cask of wine, and drunk on happiness as she was she found it hard to not remark on them.

"Duncan requires you three for the Joining." Ceostre inclined her head and slipped from Fergus' back as Alistair observed Jory vigilant over Daveth's fallen form.

"Did you doubt my honesty when I said the taint was irreversible?" He addressed her, frowning. She regarded him curiously, head tilted to one side.

"Irreversible, perhaps, but not unable to be slowed. Besides, he was bleeding all over half the camp. We had to stop the flow before someone complained."

"Maker forbid our competence be doubted, eh?" Alistair said, his complexion finally clearing.

"Indeed," she replied smoothly. "For should the reputation of the Warden's be ruined many a cot would suffer an increasing lack of warmth, yes?" Alistair blinked, his brows furrowing for a moment. She wondered at his naivety, having decided he was more than handsome enough to attract his fair share of ribald jokes and women with questionable morals—not that she was one of them, no. An astonished look came over his features, and she prided herself on having brought the blush back.

"That was… _so_ not what I meant."

"Then pray tell what you intended."

"I—I… well, I was merely… er, I'll be with Duncan." He scurried off in a remarkably fast pace, and Ceostre snickered.

"Flirt," Fergus accused lovingly. She grinned.

"Shall we go, dear brother?" she said, extending an arm. He took it and together they left Jory, swearing under his breath—or so he thought—at the arrogance of nobility, to cope with Daveth's weight.

"Go hide somewhere," Ceostre said. "I fear speaking of your recruitment with you in sight will be too much of a temptation to allow real negotiation. I sense I am handing him a perfect opportunity to use the Right of Conscription."

"Negotiation?" Fergus said, the most ridiculous look of attempted outrage on his face. "Cece, if you come back with any less than five hundred sovereigns for giving my life to the Wardens I will personally see to it that you regret it."

"I feel as though that's precisely what I'm about to do," she murmured. "If you came to harm…"

"Really though, I do think I am worth perhaps several hundred more…"

"Fergus! You're not listening—"

"Oh, look, there's Duncan! Fare well, Sister, for you shall surely not if I do not receive my cut." Without further ado, Fergus strode away towards the mabari kennels, flashing a white smirk before turning a corner.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" she shouted after him. She fumed for a moment, debating whether or not to follow, when Duncan came beside her.

"Unless my eyes are mistaken, that is the same Fergus Cousland I met at your estate, yes?" She gave a mental sigh and nodded.

"I am concerned for his safety. I apologize for my absence this morning; I had been attacked by Arl Howe's men and brought a few miles north, where I awoke to see Fergus." she said in a moderate, offhand tone, as if such was an often occurrence. She specifically left out what she had been doing when she had been captured, even if she had slaughtered what had most likely been more of Rendon's men. He did not question her of where she had been when thus taken, and she assumed they had removed the bodies and cleaned the mess she had left lest further suspicion be aroused.

"I see you two were capable enough to have escaped on your own." Duncan remarked. She supposed it was the closest to praise she would ever get, and she shrugged uncaringly.

"I would have him speak to King Cailan; it should certainly come to his attention that he has traitors amidst his troops, but I am unwilling to let him wade into the fray. Our men have been wiped out by Howe, and I am afraid Cailan may be angered by the lack of support." Duncan's eyebrows shot up, and although he refrained from comment, it was clear that her assumption had been wrong. "He is the Cousland Estate's only heir." she concluded with a slight defensive tone she could not prevent.

"It is not unheard of for Grey Wardens to hold political positions," Duncan said. She inclined her head.

"My life is dedicated to the Grey Wardens for as long as darkspawn still roam Thedas." She said, bowing her head to hide a small, humorless smile. "And if this is an actual Blight, then I doubt we'll have time worrying about succession when it's doubted we'll live that long."

"Have you no faith in our abilities?"

"I know well of your legendary skills, but it is too much to hope that you can truly live up to your reputation."

"Oh? And what do they say about us?" She opened her mouth, no answer coming forth. In truth, the Grey Wardens had faded into obscurity; she suspected Duncan knew that well.

"Let's just say that you'd have lightning bolts arcing from your eyes if the rubbish the scholars put in those history texts were true."

"How do you know that they don't?" Duncan said humorously, at odds with the stern image of him she had built in her brain.

"I'll believe it when I see it," she taunted. Duncan smiled, but did not rise to the bait. Pity; her hands ached for a fight and the particular solace one found in the dance of swordplay.

"Your ability to hold conversation does not disappoint. But it is late, and we are on the eve of battle. Have you something important to say before we consummate the ritual?"

"I wish for Fergus to join the Wardens at my side." She blurted. That was not entirely true; it had been Fergus' foolish idea.

"Excellent," Fergus said pleasantly. Damn it, the bastard _knew_ what she was going to ask.

"I understand the status of a Warden will make him untouchable by the taint and in certain political lights, yes?"

"If protection is what you seek," said Duncan, avoiding her question and watching her with a closed expression, "then we are not mayhap the best to offer it. We do not recruit out of pity."

"I assure you Fergus can more than well enough hold his own," she said stiffly. "If you like, I could fetch him for a demonstration."

"That will not be needed." he said. "But you must understand there are certain codes and secrets I cannot tell you."

"You fear I will sell information to the next rat crawling down the street gutter?" she asked, eyes afire. "The Grey Wardens are infamous for conscripting from elderly proprietor to murdering thug. I am Ceostre Cousland, daughter of Teryn Bryce Cousland and Teryna Eleanor Cousland, and you accuse _me_ of suspicion where the average Warden recruit may stab his fellows in the back? The Wardens have a reputation," she said coldly, "of saving the most horrible, most unredeemable criminals from the noose so long as they can fight. If you doubt that I have a conscience, Sir Duncan, you are very much wrong. I will not betray sacred information."

Duncan regarded her warily. "My apologies, Ceostre; I did not mean to offend. Yes, he will be immune to the taint, and yes, a Grey Warden is granted liberties, but I am sorry. Were a more practical Warden in my place I would enact the Right of Conscription, but the choice is ultimately Fergus'." Ceostre sighed, the blaze in her eyes dying down to cool ashes. She knew that the two benefits she had confirmed in all of her information gathering would be enough for him, especially since she doubted he would leave her side to fight darkspawn on her own. She cursed Fergus' protective, brotherly instincts.

"No, no, I'm sorry," she said, passing a tired hand over her eyes. "It's been a long day. I'll talk to Fergus and we'll get the ritual over with." Duncan nodded, and she thought she detected a relieved glimmer of expression in his dark eyes. She was too tired to smile at that, but she made herself pause as she turned towards the mabari kennels where Fergus was no doubt overwhelming her dog with loving condescension at the risk of losing a limb.

"One more thing," she said. Duncan gave her an inquiring brow.

"Can mabari warhounds become Grey Wardens?"

**Author's Note**

Heehee. The reason why this is semi-AU is because some things in the game were either not covered or terribly covered. I mean, really, who sends the heir of one of the most powerful houses of nobility on a _scouting_ mission? Scouting? Really? How could I _not _reunite the cuddle-siblings Fergus/PC together? And how does a puppy wuppy mabari chew a thousand darkspawn limbs without inevitably drinking some of that delish darkspawn blood and becoming a ghoul/Grey Warden? The world may never know…

"Dog, I need to ask something of you. I need you to sacrifice yourself to the Archdemon so that my beloved Alistair and I can have a happy ending without having Old God babies and political crap and so that all of Ferelden, heck, all of _Thedas_ can resume its lives without becoming Darkspawn chow. The world needs you, Dog… now more than ever."

"Bark!"

(Insert epic drawing of Dog nobly soaring at the Archdemon's throat)

_This _is how I get inspired to write fanfiction…


	5. Body and Soul

Author's Note

_Edited and reposted this chapter because I was unsatisfied with the way it ended and I am a very fickle poster!_

**Ceostre**

The sun teasingly lingered just above the horizon, far gone enough to bring faint shadows. She breathed in the humid air of the smoky-swamp smell and longed for the chill, crisp air with just a hint of saltiness pulled in by whipping winds from the coast of Highever. While she had ventured to several of the closer teyrnirs neighboring the Cousland estate, never before had she ventured this far south, and she resolved to keep her eyes and wits about her. So far, the most she had observed was stifling heat, a repetitive brown dullness, and the faint smell of either unwashed dog or unwashed male.

She awaited for the ritual to start by the sides of the nervous Jory, muttering under his breath about private suspicions and fears, the semi-conscious Daveth, who, by his pre-Joining speech, seemed determined to martyr himself, the ever-patient Duncan, standing with his arms clasped behind his back, her faithful mabari, which in truth had not taken much persuasion to be accepted as a Grey Warden, and lastly her dear brother Fergus, who stood as relaxed and cocky as ever. He had accepted Duncan's offer with good grace, and she bored holes in the back of his head with her searing glare. If she had had her way, Fergus would already be halfway back to Highever by now.

At the very least he would not perish from the darkspawn taint this coming war.

The scent of death was in the air, and soldiers grouped together in quiet groups, praying to the Maker to spare the lives of their loved ones. She was remarkably twitchy compared to her brother, and Andraste knew she had always found a state of tranquility when her blades were splashed in an endless tide of blood, but for some indescribable reason she felt on edge. She strove for a calm countenance and let her cool gaze be drawn to the sound of approaching footsteps.

Alistair had glowed like a small child at a parent's approval when Duncan had let him prepare whatever it was that cemented their ties to the Wardens. He now approached the temple—a laughable word in comparison to the ruined, roofless structure they found themselves in—with a silver chalice in his steady hands. It was the most absurdly large goblet she had ever seen, requiring two hands to hold it. He moved with an unconscious grace, his steps dance-like in his reverent ascent of the crumbling steps. So worshipping was he that he was almost wholly consumed in his duty, and Ceostre was safe to watch him without alerting him to her gaze.

"At last, the Joining may commence," Duncan intoned. "The sacred order of the Grey Wardens was founded upon the first Blight, when humanity stood upon the precipice of annihilation. And so it was that our ancestors bound to us by spilled blood ate of the flesh of darkspawn and mastered the strengths and weaknesses their taint brought." Ceostre blinked; this certainly had not been mentioned in the texts she had spent many years mulling over.

"We're… we're going to drink the blood of those... those _creatures?" _Jory said incredulously, his face a mask of undisguised horror.

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us; as we did before you." Duncan gestured towards the chalice Alistair had set on a small table behind him. Having done his task, Alistair retired towards the stairs, watching them with a casual eye. He was hardly a master of masquerading his inner thoughts and emotions, however, and Ceostre noticed he positioned himself over their one exit. She suddenly sympathized with Jory's nervous murmurings, and wished she had not let Alistair's innocence persuasion her to leave her weapons in the care of an elven servant. "_This _is the source of our power—and our victories."

"Those who survive the joining can sense the taint within the darkspawn and use it to slay the Archdemon." Alistair said. Having spoken, he blushed under the sudden transfer of attention, and said no more.

"Then let us begin," she said softly, gauging her—and more importantly, Fergus'—chances if things turned out badly. Duncan gave a brisk nod to Alistair.

"Join us, brothers and sisters," Alistair said, solemnly staring at his shoes. He blinked, as if the verses came to him with some difficulty. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish," A flicker of bemusement ran over her at Jory's increasing panic showing on his face. "Know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that, one day, we shall join you."

"Daveth," Duncan said. Daveth groaned in response, and Duncan removed the chalice from the table, kneeling beside his prone form. "Step forward. You are called to submit yourself for the greater good." Duncan lifted the cup to his lips, and Daveth swallowed. A long moment passed before he reacted.

Blood ran down his cheeks as he clutched at himself, choking to no end. With much fuss and screaming, he died.

Ceostre stared at him. In another time, she would have been horrified. Now, after she had lost so much? She was merely incandescently angry that Fergus had made it this far without either being made aware darkspawn blood was drank and death was a likely possibility of Joining, and more than a little anxious over the fate of her brother—with, one would notice, complete disregard to her own life, which she viewed as insignificant in the scheme of things.

"Holy Andraste…" Jory said in a ragged tone, backing away.

"Step forward, Jory," Daveth said, briefly leaning down to close Daveth's lids over his soulless eyes.

"N—no," Jory said, his breaths short and shuddering. Like her, too, Alistair had divested them all of weapons. "I have a wife, a _child!_ H—had I known—"

"There is no turning back," Duncan said, his eyes turning predatory. In a moment she understood exactly why he was the senior most Grey Warden in Ferelden. As he drew his sword, a chilling ring resounding in the air, Ceostre truly pondered if she would be able to fight her way out of this one. She met Fergus' eyes, cool and accepting (if a tad shocked), and knew she would have no support in slaughtering their way out of the army in a suicide attempt. As Duncan easily parried Jory's powerful swipe and shoved his blade deep into his belly, she knew, with a sinking feeling, there truly was no turning back.

"Step forward, Ceostre," Duncan said in the same grave monotone. Their gazes connected, and Ceostre recognized a familiar ease with killing, if with perhaps a bit of reticence. She numbly took a step forward and accepted the goblet from his hands, regarding the dark, viscous liquid inside. She had been unwary, incautious, and unthinking in the joyous glow of Fergus' presence, and had lost that cold, honed edge of clarity that tragedy had brought, else she would have never been caught dead (Ha, ha) in this predicament. As she brang the cup to her lips, Ceostre swore to Andraste she would never be caught oblivious again.

But her vow meant nothing if her foolishness took her life in the next instant.

There was one of those rare moments of silence, the kind where nothing, not winds, nor voice, nor movement stirred, and in reflection Ceostre prayed to the Maker. She had never been overly faithful, and when Howe had shattered her life into jagged edges of blackness she had lost what little she had, but in that instant, she begged the Maker to spare the life of her brother.

And, if he had an extra moment or two, to spare hers in addition.

She poured a cautious amount into her mouth, and blinked in amusement. Other than being the most bitterest, spiciest, most unappetizing horse piss she had ever drank, there was frankly nothing special about it (and by special she meant pain, which other than the stinging of her mouth nothing qualified). She stuffed her cheeks full of blood (it _did_ numb most of her mouth to the sting) and swallowed.

And Maker, wasn't that a great idea.

Her throat was on _fire_. Her hands immediately shot up to soothe her neck, dropping the chalice. She choked, a black wave of blood rippling down her chin. She couldn't breathe; her eyesight went completely into a fiery white sheen of agony. The darkspawn blood burned a slow, torturous path to her stomach. She staggered and her knees buckled. The stone floor was blissfully frigid against the inferno of her body. For a moment, she struggled for dominance over the pain, and almost succeeded; then the levels of torment escalated to impossible heights. Pain slammed into her forehead, and she clutched at it. Somehow an ear piercing scream forced its way through the conflagration that was her throat.

_I'm dead_, she thought. _I'm dying. _Desperate memories tided over her, fading just as quick. She felt a moment's regret for something she knew naught of, and then suffering overwhelmed her.

_I'm dead._

—

_The wind was growing stronger._

_Even as she thought this, dark, sinister clouds drew overhead at an unearthly speed. Her hair whipped back from her face, revealing her jaw clenched in determination and squinted eyes as she struggled against the force of the Maker. She clenched her fists and stood her ground, the grasses about her yielding in a tide of green. _

_It hungered for her. It wanted to tear herself apart, from clothing to skin until there was naught left but the sad ashes of seared bone. She, alone, stood tall and upright in the field, as though she fancied herself a warrior of legend clad in a mere gauzy shirt and deerskin trousers._

_There was a predatory roar, and, having lost the power to hear long before from the screaming of the wind, she bared her teeth in response to the increased pressure against her body._

_It blasted her square in the face, and she was hurled several yards backward. Rather than soft vegetation breaking her fall, her backside slammed into cold, hard stone. There was the briefest instant of burning pain before she fell, limp and unable to move, landing ungraciously several feet below on an outcropping of rock. _

_The malicious-looking clouds and waves of grassland had vanished into all-consuming darkness. Her head dangled over a black abyss, and as the world tilted she began to slide inevitably downwards. Her limbs did not heed her, and she lay there, helpless and yet calm._

_Even though devoid of nearly all senses, she felt a presence. It was deep, deep below her, and yet was approaching her rapidly. The presence brought a curious sense of fear to her, and she struggled futilely all the more because of it. A blast of hot humidity replaced the chill settling in her bones, and she turned her eyes downwards._

_The very personification of malevolence and death itself rose before her on mighty wings of dark flesh. Despite her courage, despite her legend, despite everything, she felt humbly terrified. The demon let out a bestial, fiery roar, and she felt the last of her weight slip from the stone. She fell towards its open maw, her lifeless body graceful in its paralyzation, and let the last of her breath slip from her lips as its blade-like teeth closed itself about her._

**Alistair**

"Hold him down," he growled at Fergus. He adored puppies and animals as was their due, but after the mabari had bitten his hand and succeeded in dragging Ceostre's lifeless body out of the tent they had put her in, he felt ready to dig a grave for the hound.

"Andraste, you're sure she is alright?" Fergus asked for the third time. Alistair ignored him and pounced at the dog. Surprisingly nimble for all his bulk, the dog all but slipped through his grasp like water and came to a halt at Ceostre lying supine on the floor. He circled about her, sitting down and fixing a glare at him, complete with a menacing growl.

"So help me, you cursed mabari, if you don't come over here right now and drink this darkspawn blood, I will skin you, turn you into a cushion, and ship you off to the nearest Orlesian merchant boat." The mabari cocked his broad head at him.

"The people of Orlais are more into dyed silk and colorful textiles," Fergus remarked. "If you wished to sell the hide of a mabari, I would suggest Antiva." Alistair switched his burning glower to him, at which Fergus merely met his scowl peaceably.

Duncan had since long before gone to bury Daveth and Jory, and had charged him with the increasingly difficult duty of cornering the dog and shoving the chalice down his throat. He approached the dog with his hands spread in a friendly gesture, and tried a different tactic.

"Come on, you little puppy you, I have a nice snack for you!" He said in a feminine, cooing voice, doing his best to imitate Ceostre (and failing). The mabari regarded him funnily, a confused whine escaping his powerful jaw. He scooted closer, gesturing for the mabari to come to him.

"Wittle bitty puppy, who's a good boy? You are! Yes, you are!" The dog gave an ecstatic bark and bounded close.

"Are you sure she's alright?" Fergus said. "She has been like this for some time." Fergus' voice startled the dog, and Alistair ran off every expletive he knew in one, long sentence as the mabari turned around and ran back to his vigil at his mistress' corpse. _Unconscious body_, he corrected himself. He was starting to doubt Duncan's word that she would live.

"The taint manifests itself differently depending on the person." He said after completing his damnation aimed at the dog. Fergus sighed.

"Give me that," he said, snatching the chalice. Alistair gaped at him with wide eyes as Fergus patted his lap and sat down, the mabari coming close to investigate. In a few moments the dog was on the ground, his eyes turning a shade of creamy white as a drop of blood rolled down his jaw. Alistair shook his head in wonder and helped Fergus up.

They walked over to his sister. Already the color was returning to her ghostly pale face, and Alistair pointed it out. He leaned down and lifted her lids. Her blue, blue irises and pupils had returned from their complete whiteness, staring soullessly up at him, and as he opened his mouth to speak she her eyelids suddently fluttered, her eyes focusing on his face.

He whipped his hand back, feeling awkward, but apparently it wasn't fast enough for her liking. Before he knew it, he was flat on his back, feeling like both his sternum and his groin were broken. Why, Maker _why_ hadn't he wore the plate rather than the light chainmail?

The starry sky was suddenly blocked by her concerned and yet haunted eyes. He thought that she was going to apologize and perhaps offer to pull him up once the pain abated, but then she was embraced in a crushing hug by her brother.

Somewhere above him the classic "I don't know what I would have done without you" brother-sister conversation was exchanged. After a considerable time he was able to get up without feeling like he was dying, and he blinked away the tears in his eyes. Ceostre glanced at him from under the protection of her brother's arm, and she opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

"Remind me to never surprise you," he said. She colored prettily, and he decided the darkspawn blood had addled her wits, making her less… cold, less guarded—mayhap she was merely dazed?

Or maybe it had addled his.

Or maybe it was just the lack of feminine company, or the agonizing throb in a place he would prefer not to mention. He shook his head as if to rid his jumbled and most certainly unwelcome thoughts and cleared his throat.

"I… sorry." She said, doing the same. He dismissed her stumbling apology with a wave of his hand and summoned a cheery air.

"Well, then, we best be off planning war with the King and his generals. Wouldn't want his favorite Grey Wardens to be absent, would we?" He said. Ceostre nodded, gesturing at the limp form of her dog. Before she could ask anything, he beckoned for them to follow.

"Oh, he'll be _fine_," he said over his shoulder, feeling a certain malicious pleasure at leaving the dog behind. If the damned beast died, he would be glad to be rid of it. If he lived—_Andraste, _please_ let the mabari die_—he could take his chances in camp trying to find his woozy owner. He smirked and strode to where Duncan had told him to bring them when they were ready, and left the Couslands to follow at their own pace.

**Cousland**

It came as a great shock to find herself able to inhale and move. Color and sound and—and feeling all _rushed_ at her, and she had acted in instinct. Her mind struggled to comprehend the abundance of _living_ while her impulsive body lashed out. A faint touch on her eyelids, a sensed presence to her distant right, and suddenly there were stinging abrasions on her knuckles. She had lay there, gasping for air as though she had truly been devoid of it for an aeon of death, the blood surging through her once paralyzed limbs.

As she relearned how to breathe, how to blink and speak and walk, her body moved mechanically. She gazed upon the man in pain before her as though she was a newborn babe, and in a sense she _was_. To her changed eyes he was the first thing she had seen, and so had set the standard of beauty, even as he groaned and rolled about clutching at himself in the throes of agony. She regarded him curiously as would a child, and considered poking at him. Before she could act on the idea, she was held in a crushing embrace.

She gazed up at a face she knew well; rippling mahogany hair down to his jaw, lively, warm hazel eyes, and a genuine smile. Her struggling mind offered a name with the face; _Fergus._ Her brother. There were things about him that did not quite match with her memories of adolescence and early adulthood at his side; he had unshaven stubble about his mouth, and creases of anxiousness she had not remembered about his eyes and forehead. She hugged him back, and let herself be enveloped in a comfort familiar in an alien world. For a moment, nothing was said.

"Ceostre…" Fergus' eyes were liquid ebony. She looked up at him and arched an eyebrow with an arrogance coming back to her.

"You were the one who bloody _insisted_ on being a Warden," she reminded him. He touched his forehead with hers as though it was a gesture of shame, but his low chuckle rendered the act irrelevant. She wondered why she had persisted through all of these years in making him a practical man, and sighed, the speech of scorn she had worked up lost in the simple happiness to be alive.

From behind her, Alistair had risen from his fetal position and had uttered some witty remark. She wracked her brain for a humorous response that would have him lobster red and tripping over his feet, but came up blank. Instead she apologized.

It was not the _apology_ itself that annoyed her—apologies could be noble in their own right—but the fact that she blushed. She groaned aloud as he took his leave and buried her face in Fergus' chest, which heaved with laughter.

"Father's eloquent daughter tongue-tied with a peasant boy." Fergus shook his head in mock dismay.

"He is not a peasant," she protested. "Or at least, I don't _think _he is. And he most certainly isn't a _boy_." Fergus opened his mouth to tease her further, and she shot him a warning glance.

"Do you feel tired?" he said instead. She pondered it for a moment, before shaking her head.

"No, not tired, just…" She shrugged helplessly. He nodded understanding.

"Well," she gestured casually at the dog, striving to hide her deep concern. "Is… he going to be alright?" Fergus glanced at her as he bent to inspect her mabari.

"Attached with the slobbering beast, are you?" Fergus jested. Save for his obviously faked voice, he sounded exactly like one of those nobles who snubbed the bond between a mabari and its imprinted owner. She rolled her eyes and shoved at him.

"Yes, yes, he's going to be fine," Fergus said, eyeing her with a sigh. "I suspect you're going to order me to carry him, aren't you?"

"Precisely."

Between them, they managed to lug him after the distant form of Alistair. Despite the considerable bulk of her deadweight dog, it would have been easy enough to do on her own if not for the dormant taint sapping their strengths. On the way, they came by the elven servant in possession of their arms and thanked her for keeping them, arming themselves once more. By the time they reached the king and his advisors, she was indeed fatigued. She cursed her weakness, praying that it was only temporary and that she would recover before rushing into battle.

They came before King Cailan with a mercifully small group of advisors. Upon seeing them, the king raised an eyebrow and dismissed what few he had save for Alistair, Duncan, and the famous Hero of the River Dane.

She let go of her dog with a grateful gasp and managed to bow at the king. She felt Fergus do the same.

"Your highness," she murmured. "Warden Commander Duncan," She bowed again. "Teryn Loghain Mac Tir," She inclined her head as was fitting to address a peer of similar rank, and smiled privately when Alistair visibly bristled at having failed to been addressed. "How fares Gwaren?"

"Well," he said after a moment, his voice gravelly and forbidding. She raised an eyebrow and barely suppressed a surprised laugh at his short and rather rude sentence.

"And Highever?" King Cailan asked after it became apparent that Loghain wasn't going to follow courteous protocol. She winced, and berated herself for having provided the perfect opportunity for the question to arise.

"Arl Rendon Howe's men came upon our estate in the midst of the night, after I had left with most of our forces to join here." Fergus said. She wished he hadn't; the memories of the fire and the screams came rushing back to her. She averted her gaze as her heart thudded painfully.

"A coward's act," Cailan hissed, surprisingly venomous. Despite his youth and arrogance, the king had a heart for righteousness. He calmed, his gaze becoming sympathetic. "I am sorry for your losses. Did no one survive?"

"My sister only," Fergus said. His voice had gone extremely tight, and she knew he would talk no more of loss and pain.

"We wondered why the bulk of the Arl's men had yet to show. I will have what few that are here put to questioning. You have my consolations, and a most solemn oath that I will see justice done." Ceostre nodded thanks.

"You would do well to return to an asylum away from the front, Lady." Loghain's tone was acerbic, and her thin patience snapped.

"Is it your concern for the future of Highever that you speak so? Or is it of lesser motives that you insult my abilities?" she said, her tone contrastingly sweet.

"'Tis merely that this is no place for a woman, no matter how deeply set she is in her folly. You should not be here." He glared openly at her, and she narrowed her eyes at him. Politics were all well and good, save that he had no talent for subterfuge, and that this hurling of blunt accusations both bored and angered her.

"Pray tell where I should be," she said, laughing openly. "Should I leave my kinsman and fellow Fereldans to fight a lone battle here while I mind the grave of my youth?" She could see Cailan was clearly flabbergasted. At his side, Duncan looked mildly surprised, a wondering expression on his face as though he was torn between interrupting or not. She hoped he didn't; she took the reminder that she was not without enemies, albeit for absurdly unknown reasons, even in the southernmost part of Ferelden to heart.

"You should not be here," he repeated.

"Do elaborate," Fergus said, joining the fray. Loghain remained tight-lipped and looking like he would like to drive a dagger between their shoulder-blades the instant they turned their gaze.

"Please!" King Cailan sputtered, with a reddened state of color that rivaled Alistair's. She sighed internally. One could tell much about a person by the way they allowed their thoughts and emotions to read. She had never before had such a personal meeting with the regent, and she did not think it meant well that he was ill-versed in the arts of court intrigue. Her suspicions roused in a spray of deadly silver tendrils, all of them pointed at Loghain. He was a close friend of Maric, tragically deceased at sea and father of Cailain, and had been all but appointed protector of the youthful heir. That he had allowed his lord Cailan to grow softer than that of stone-harsh politicking standards spoke wonders about him…

"Loghain! Show some proof that there's a human heart in there!" Cailan said, giving a nervous laugh. She smiled politely.

"Might I remind you two who you are in the presence of?" Duncan addressed her brother and her. "It would be appreciated if you would take Alistair's humble presence and learn from it." She fought a roll of her eyes and kept her smile pleasant, neither giving offense nor agreeing with him. Alistair beamed from under his embarrassment, while Loghain glared at any who dared to meet his stormy gaze. Cailan cleared his throat.

"I apologize, Lady Cousland. If we may," he said, gesturing at the map of Ostagar's close surrounds. "We did not know how long you would take to recover, and it is to our greatest pleasure that you and your brother came about unharmed." Loghain's sour look was proof enough of that lie. She wondered what she had did to earn his enmity, and mentally cracked her knuckles in grim glee at the thought of crushing whatever nefarious plot he had against her. "As it is, our battle plans are all but concluded. Would you and your brother care to give us your opinions?" She inclined her head, and together they moved close, peering at the deerskin map.

"We'll have a line of mabari followed by fifty score men outside the walls. Once they draw within bowshot, the archers will move forward and rain death from a volley of fire. The hounds will be sent in to break their initial charge and scatter their ranks. At this point we will send the men past the archers. The fighting will be fierce, but we will beat them. General Loghain has his troops positioned to the sides of the darkspawn horde. At your signal, the lighting of the flame atop the tower of Ishal, he will flank them, and trap them between the anvil and the hammer." Cailan gave a beatific smile. "A brilliant plan, courtesy of Teryn Loghain."

She and Fergus glanced at each other at the same time.

"Will you, sister?" Fergus murmured. She nodded and squared her shoulders.

"On inspecting Ostagar, I found the walls, while strong, to be enclosing a very small space. It is impossible to put all of the troops inside its supposed safety." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of where the gates lay. "The gates are of primitive hardened wood, rather than that of iron. You have chosen a very bad place to withstand a siege, your highness, and it appears your plan consists of waiting on the darkspawn's leisure to attack rather than to assume the offensive. I must also assume that as far from civilization, we are not well enough stocked to hold them off for long." She paced slowly about the table with the map, her steps slow and predatory.

"The mabari are our best fighters. They are incapable of the fear that paralyzes your ranks. Did it occur to you that within moments of biting a darkspawn, they will have either perished from the taint or have undertaken the transitive state of the Joining?" She glanced at Duncan, hoping she had not revealed anything that had been unknown to the king and his bastard of a general. Other than still looking surprised and a bit proud, too, he showed no signs of discomfort, and she continued before the shocked silence was overcome by angry protesting.

"Let the darkspawn crush themselves with their own weight upon pikes placed within the crevices of a row of shields. Archers are not much good for aught but a siege, your highness. Placing them upon the walls will provide greater damage to the darkspawn before they collide with our men, but once they mingle the archers will become useless." She turned about and continued her measured pacing.

"I would have them on towers as well as on the wall, so that they might find better opportunity in range and selective killing of their leaders and catapult engineers. Tell me, my king, how many darkspawn do we face?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Loghain. "Do you honestly thing what you command will be able to encircle their horde? Your line will be spread shockingly thin if you even could succeed in trapping them. If you would wish to be far enough to disengage from combat until the signal, cavalry would be preferred to running the distance once the fire is lit, and the Maker knows it has always been Highever that has had better horsemanship."

"Your arrogance is ill-fitting," Loghain snapped, his face livid and furious. She smiled, knowing she did not boast without reason. She saw a flicker of fear in his angered eyes, and she turned about in her endless repetition of slow, easy walking, her smile widening.

"Having witnessed this terrible plotting and hearing its answer to its multiple, abhorrent problems, I would suggest you find better generals than that of Loghain."

"I—I…" Cailan stammered. His face was exactly the same degree of astonishment as Alistair, and she wondered at the similarities in their faces.

"The others agreed with my plan," Loghain growled. His face was turning an uncomely shade of purple, and he trembled with uncontained rage.

"Bribery, Loghain?" Ceostre inquired. She let her smile be seen this time, save it was a frigid, deadly thing devoid of joy. "No, I suspect that the good men amongst the king's confidants would not like to see this turn into a massacre. Blackmail, more likely."

That was enough for him. He lunged at her, hostility escaping in a snarl, and she stepped out of his reach, shifting into a dancer's crouch. She flexed her hands and jerked her head at Fergus, who managed to draw the King and Alistair back. Duncan stood impassive, still making neither move nor word to intervene. Loghain drew his sword and lunged at her again.

She drew no steel in her graceful defense, crossing her arms above her head. Loghain's sword bounced off her gleaming vambraces hard enough to bruise her and benumb her fingers, and she winced as she spun out of the way of his frenzied blows. The taint had weakened her considerably, but she was still faster than him, who stumbled like a drunken oaf. She was as untouchable as the breath of wind, gliding and ghosting about his blundering rage. She stole upon him as he spun around in a futile attempt to keep up with her, his sword's deadly ring always an instant too far from her.

Soft and swift as a teasing lover's kiss, she slipped past his guard. His head was already turning, seeking her blood, but once more he was too lake. Her boot came up, slamming into the back of his hand and rendering his fingers nerveless. The sword tumbled from his hand, and she slammed her elbow into the nape of his neck. He fell.

"By all that is holy—" Cailan swore. A glint of steel caught her eye as she stood over Loghain's fallen form, and she ducked in time to avoid her head being decapitated. Strands of mahogany hair floated about her as she jumped over another blow. She cursed and glanced up, coming face to face with a few of Loghain's apparently very loyal guard.

"Maker's breath, _disengage!_" Cailan shouted. She waited warily for the next attack, Fergus running towards her. He was only a step away, but in that moment Loghain stirred from beneath her.

He won very badly.

In terms of a noble duel, the victor was to accept the loser's with grace, as was the loser to accept defeat. Loghain either knew of naught, or didn't care. She suspected it was the latter.

His armored fist slammed into the backs of her knees, and she toppled before him. In a flash he gripped her arm, twisting it behind her back and grinding her face into the stone floor. She felt the cold edge of a blade at the back of her neck, and took a shocked breath of dirt and dust.

There was shouting above her. Her ears rang. She felt as though time had stopped, the pressure ever so slowly increasing on her neck.

For the third time since coming to the god-forsaken fort of Ostagar, she lost consciousness.


	6. Tormented

_**Author's Note**— Extremely violent themes. Proceed at own risk!_

She awoke, her entire body throbbing in pain. Letting out a ragged sigh, she pushed herself up.

A cell. She was in a cell. She assumed she was in whatever tiny dungeon Ostagar had, and did not care overly so.

She had been foolish, yes. Insolent, too. Was it suffice enough to throw her in a _cell_ on the eve of battle? She did not think that improving the direly terrible battle plan Loghain had conjured from the empty space between his ears, albeit in the tactless manner she had done so, was reason enough to imprison her. She was positive that there would have been a public outcry towards that move, save that almost no one likely to aid them knew that both the potential heirs to the Teyrnir of Highever were trapped in the horribly indefensible castle of Ostagar. Besides, the Maker knew no man could be spared supervising her hopefully brief incarceration when darkspawn lurked at their perimeters. Her frustrated speculations mostly came up fruitless, but she knew for a fact that something terribly wrong was going to happen, starting with Loghain's planning.

Either the man was an idiot, or had intentionally persuaded the gullible king to suicide himself and all others to silence. As tempting as the idea was, she disregarded the former. Loghain had been in a position of trust as the close comrade of the late King Maric, and Andraste knew how malleable the young prince exposed freely as if nephew to Loghain would have been. She sighed again and closed her eyes, the thrill of being amid the familiar battlefield of conspiracy fading quickly under the terrible truth that she had stumbled upon something indeed deadly and dire.

Treason.

She rested, and began plotting. She knew a rescue from Fergus was inevitable. The hours passed without a single sign of him, and she began to grow concerned. Her thoughts turned to the Grey Wardens.

She had thought Duncan incorruptible. She did not doubt that he was a man of righteousness, and wondered what had been done to him to make him comply. She knew of no family or loved ones that would force him beyond his will. Frankly, the Grey Wardens were so shrouded in mystery and fanciful legend that she knew close to nothing about him, and in the weeks they had spent moving from the ruins of her household south to Ostagar she had not been inclined to casual conversation on his origins. She shook her head and forced herself to breathe slowly, to relax her pulse so that one might assume she was asleep.

Loghain. He was undoubtedly in league with something sinister. She surreptitiously—lest anyone observe her sleeping façade—rubbed the back of her neck, where her fingers disturbed drying blood. Ruffling her hair, she searched for a pin to no avail. She was devoid of arms as well, and sighed, pillowing her head on her arm.

A quarter to an hour later, a faint flicker of light replaced the inky blackness behind her lids. She opened her eyes a fraction, peering through her eyelashes. The light coalesced into a weak lamp, too dim to see its owner. The person came closer, and she kept her breath relentlessly even and her limbs slack.

The silhouette was hardly taller than her, although to be fair she was admittedly not all that short. Not Fergus, then, who towered above mortal men. Others ghosted into existence behind the figure, the sound of booted feet echoing in the hollow room. Dare she attempt to overpower one and snatch a weapon, her only advantage—and a bad one at that—that of surprise? By the sound of clinking plate and blades sliding free, she discarded the idea.

The bolt in the door slid free and the door swung open. Her chance passed as men filed in, swords pointed at her. Clearly no chances were being taken, and she sat up. The one with the lamp stepped forward.

"Get up," he said, his voice harsh and relentless. She cocked her head at him.

"So the gallows it is to be?" Before the remark was scarce past her lips, she was again on the floor, blood dripping from her split lower lip and a choir of birds ringing in her ear.

"That's the last flippant thing you will have ever said, Lady Cousland," She blinked to hear her name in such formality, although the tone spoken was far from proper. She suddenly wished that she had taken her chances in the cell. She might have even pulled it off, had she been unaffected by the darkspawn taint.

A gauntleted hang bit into her arm, distracting her from her retrospection, and she blinked back tears as she was hauled up. She was half dragged out of her confines, and she had lost feeling to her left arm by the time they had ascended the steep stairs to the surface.

She glanced about as she was pulled through what she thought was the majority of the camp. If anything, it was darker outside than in the pit she waken to, and when she glanced up it was to a faint sliver of moon and its myriad of starry companions. They avoided what scattered campfires they came across, and she wondered if she should call out. As if sensing her thoughts, the man in possession of her arm tightened his grip to the point of all-consuming pain, pausing long enough in his infernal march to send her a warning glare. She clenched her teeth and nodded curtly to him once.

They walked further into the night. The sightings of grouped bedrolls and occasional tent became rarer as they progressed. Finally, they came upon a small solitary encampment, and she thought that they were practically asking for the darkspawn to drag them off then and there. She sighed, and wondered what it was that had her running into one tragic piece of bad luck to another.

They came across a lone man, looking for all the world as though he would rather be sleeping than out here. She didn't blame him. He looked curious at seeing her surrounded by so many, and waited patiently for her to be handed over. She was yanked forward (she didn't relish the prospect of seeing the undoubtedly dreadful bruise on her arm), but her captor seemed reluctant to relinquish his grasp.

"I was ordered to impress the importance of her… escort should I have found yours to be lacking," he said. The other man snorted in disbelief.

"One woman, unarmed," he said sarcastically, "Maker protect me!" Risking a glance, she saw that the man gripping her arm looked uncomfortable, as though he did not wish to say exactly what this lone woman had done to his master.

"Nevertheless…"

"Alright, _alright_," he said, muttering something ungrateful not quite under his breath. He went off and came back with three others, looking drowsy and annoyed. The man gripping her arm shifted uneasily, knowing as well as she did that they hardly sufficed.

"Only four of you?"

"Andraste's flaming sword, man, the standard for a spy is _two._" he said irritably. She looked slyly at him from behind slitted eyes, finding amusement as she often did in said accusation. A spy, was it? Her eyes shifted to over his shoulder, where somewhere beyond in the darkness inevitable torture lay in wait. She had no information that her torturer would be asking for, and she could more than stand pain. The only question was _who_ Loghain had trusted enough to pass her on to brand a lesson on her flesh.

"I insist. My orders—"

"And _my_ orders were to bring no more than we can spare. Your lord has a lot of gall pressing us like this. Where would he be without Howe's support?"

She blinked. Howe.

Howe.

In that moment, the events which had brought her but hilarity became personal. She had to restrain herself from lashing out then and there, the name burning away what caution and realistic good sense she had. _Maker, that bloody bastard Howe._ Her heartbeat accelerated, blood throbbing to her very fingertips, warming her against the chill night.

Howe. He was here. In Ostagar. Barely a hundred. Yards. Away.

_Howe._ The one word clamored in her brain, and she shuddered, eyes going wide, sweat beading against her skin. She locked her teeth to stop them from ripping into a feral snarl, and her reaction did not go unnoticed.

"Ah, the bitch's scared of him," Satisfied of her "fear", he let go of her and shoved her towards the other group. Needles stabbed deep into her arm, and she took in a ragged breath through her teeth. The other man grunted in accession, and the four surrounded her, walking away from the group. She looked over her shoulder in fragmented motions, and as soon as Loghain's lackeys were out of sight, she attacked.

Moments later, blood splattering the serviceable dress they had given her in replacement of her gear, she strapped as many weapons as she could about her body and ran. Her legs devoured the distance between her and her life's very reason of existence. She couldn't seem to close her eyes, her breath coming in large gasps despite the fact she was fit enough to have easily made it light of breath. She didn't care for subtlety as she scanned the slumbering camp. She homed in on the largest, loftiest tent in the camp, slaying those on guard duty and those who were unfortunate to have not been heavy sleepers.

Her mind was a whirl of informal prayers to whatever deity cared to listen. _Gods_, Rendon Howe_._ Her lips pulled back in the savage growl she was dying to release, and she hefted her sword. Arl Rendon Howe was going to wake up to a nasty surprise. She hefted her swords and went in blade first, tearing through the silken heraldry emblazoned on the tent.

It was bright inside. A brazier smoldered in the center, and lamps were abundant. The luminance blinded her eyes, adapted to the darkness outside that had suited her mood so well, and that one moment of vulnerability was all it took. Too late did she see the mage ready to pounce in the corner. Too late did she twist from the spell he hurled at her. It bit her in all its fury, leaving her both nerveless and in a world of torment. Her blades fell from her hands, and it was sheer luck that she managed to crumple gracelessly to the ground without impaling herself on them.

Gazing sightlessly into the malevolent face of Howe, back arched and mouth wide with a scream that couldn't quiet escape, she remedied that. It was sheer _bad _luck that she _hadn't _killed herself in her fall. Although, without a clean blow, the mage would have probably healed her before she could have escaped the sinister promise in Howe's eyes by death. In that single instant, the tables had turned. She had gone from predator to prey in that single, shocking instant.

"Lift her up for me," he said to the mage, almost conversational with his crafty, smooth voice. How many times had she heard that same tone in both horrifying nightmares and visions of crushing his hideous, deformed skull and drinking his blood? The mage did so while Howe bound her hands and lifted them until she was forced to stand on her toes, dropping the slack between her wrists over a hook attached to the frame of the tent. To her disappointment, the tent shuddered but supported her weight. Howe slowly pulled her blades from their sheaths and tossed them in a corner.

The mage let go of her, looking oddly sympathetic, and she met his cognac eyes behind the wisps of amber hair that had escaped his pony tail. She begged aid with a single look, despite her resentment at his being an accomplice to the obviously evil Howe, and he shook his head. Howe noticed, and he turned away to inspect a low table supplying a range of wicked looking objects.

"Reheat the brazier before you leave," he said, meeting her gaze as he held up a rusted scalpel in inspection. "And don't come back,"

"You won't need me to…" He drifted off.

"I'll cauterize her for tonight. Mayhap tomorrow you may heal her, if she behaves. And survives," His smile was wicked enough to send the mage scurrying immediately despite his doubts. Behind her, the brazier flared, and the tent flap stirred as he ducked out.

They were alone. He turned silently back to the table, pawing through its ancient blood-encrusted inflictors of torment, riddled with rust and lacking in sanitary care. She grew stiff in the silence, the pain of the mage's spell fading only to be replaced by a rapidly growing ache in her arms. Her mouth was dry, and she summoned an air of impossible nonchalance that had aided her so many times before.

She examined her surroundings while Howe drew out the silence. The weapons scattered at her feet were useless at the moment, and she scrutinized the bindings about her wrists. The tip of the hook was angled so that if she swung just so, she might be able to escape it. She glanced at Howe once more, whose satisfaction was palpable; she doubtlessly would have been unsurprised if he had patted himself on the back. She shrugged, inasmuch as one could do when bound thus. It was worth a try; she certainly wasn't going to stick around and wait while Howe finished plotting a night's worth of torture.

The slight shiver of the tent and the shadow of her movements caught Howe's attention; he looked at her for a moment, a frown on his face. She wasted no time in acting out her escape, and when he lunged to still her motions, she kicked him square in the chest. It brang her the ultimate satisfaction to see him fall to the ground, clutching at his torso, and she completed her swing as the hook shuddered and gave way. She tilted a fallen sword and pinned it with her foot, sawing at her bonds while Howe recovered. The rope broke just as Howe lunged at her, and he fell on her, a short blade drawn. She stiffened at the momentary nick at her throat before she rolled atop him, kneeing him viciously and twisting the wrist holding the sword, elbow pinning him down by his neck.

The guard posted outside came in, weapon drawn. Howe took advantage of her distraction and returned the favor, rolling over her. She struggled to wrench the sword from his grasp, desperate to kill him, _hurt_ him, knowing it was never that easy. He worked his hand into his pocket and pulled out a dark vial. She stiffened and thrashed, managing to turn him over again, and he sliced his back on one of the swords lying on the floor, but not before he broke the vial against her hip bone.

Almost immediately her side began to burn like flame to paper, the liquid seeping through cloth faster than she could gasp. Howe grimaced and drew back his fist. She never felt the blow.

—

She ran her tongue over her teeth experimentally, and was satisfied that after her numerous successes in foiling Howe's advances she still retained all of them. He was still recovering from when she had whipped him across the face with the legs of a splintered chair previously tied to her, and had since been under the watch of several armed and wary men. She was presently placed in quite a few suffocating layers of ropes, as though some dangerous beast of predation, and she thought that Howe would have a fine time trying to stab her with burning hot pokers through her armor of stiffened cord.

Ah, and there the devil was, ducking under the tent flaps and looking fit to murder her with a mere glare. He looked surprisingly unhurt despite the abuse he had taken from her, and she noted jealously that he had received the attentions of the mage. The same could not be said for her.

"Demon-spawned _bitch_," he cursed, coming up to grip her chin in a harsh grasp. "If you wanted a crowd to observe your humiliation, then you shall have your wish." He smacked her about for a while, breathing heavily and pouring body and soul into each swing of his fist. She was dizzy and reeling when he was done, the exertion appearing to have relaxed him.

"I forgot how much fire Bryce Cousland's scion had," he said, backing away slightly as if to admire the worsened state of her face. He paced slowly. "How else could you have escaped the wreck you call a home when I had the place withering in my fist?" He shook his head, his cruel, beady eyes daring her to answer. Even if she had a smart retort, she was in such distress she doubted that she would have been able to.

"I thought to myself, and wondered long and hard while your mother lay groveling at my feet and my men had their fun with your father's cooling corpse." She swallowed, blood soothing her dry throat, knowing he was spewing lies and yet pained all the same. He noticed, and a creamy smile came upon his face, like that of a smug, purring cat. "It came to me, eventually. All know that estates have lesser entrances for their servant folk." He came before her, leaning close to savor her torment.

"Your fire certainly came from your mother, methinks. She stood against my torture for a long time before she told me where the exit you had used was. Longer than one would have expected, for a woman. Of course, by the time I got it out of her, you were already on your merry way to Ostagar with Duncan already." His expression turned annoyed for a moment. "Loghain had wanted me to kill him then and there. Two birds with one stone, so to speak." He shrugged. "It's not as though I've entirely failed, though."

"What have you done to him?" Ceostre rasped.

"A bit of this, a bit of that. Blood magic, if you must know," he confided in her. "I won't get into the specifics. Suffice to say, Duncan is much more complacent than he was before. But we were talking about your mother, yes?" His face came even closer.

"Would you like to know what technique I employed to make her talk? Just how personally would you want to know what I did to make her beg for mercy, make her _writhe_ before me?" He turned to the brazier behind him, withdrawing a red hot poker. "I used one akin to this, and pressed it into every. Single. Orifice." She pulled back as far as she could, hating and fearing him as she had hated and feared no one else. She inhaled, holding a breath full of hot metal, and let it out as a scream as he touched her cheekbone with it.

_Ohgodsohgodsohgods. _The suffering was indescribable, much more than the vial of poison that had left scattered blisters across her hip. Much more than sharp cuts and scrapes. Sharp and sudden, it hurt more than her induction into the Grey Wardens. Well had she heeded her parents warning of fire, and had thus not had cause to panic at the infamous all-consuming pain. He held it there, bone sizzling, until she wept and raged and screamed and thrashed. Even with the poker gone, it still burned, and each tear that ran over her abused skin renewed the pain.

Howe stepped back in satisfaction, carelessly tossing the poker back into the brazier. Behind her, her physical captors shifted, some in anticipation, some in uncomfortableness. Howe waited until she was able to focus wet eyes on him. He drew out a small book, thin and worn, and her insides clenched when she realized it was her abused journal.

"I went through your things, you know. I wasn't surprised by most of the stuff in their; I dispensed your arms through my men. Cousland weaponry should serve the Howes, don't you think? But _this,_" he shook the book, holding it high in the air. "This did. You know as well as I do that there is no hoarding of memorable or wealthy objects in the army. I would have thought the Cousland girl had enough brains to figure out to never let herself be as vulnerable as to leave a trail of herself in _writing_. I suppose I was wrong." He flipped it open.

"Very, very cute," he said as she groaned. "Quite the artist." He ripped out Fergus' locket of his beloveds and tossed it in the brazier distractedly as he scanned more papers.

"You vile son of a bitch," she said, voice atremble. "May you be incarcerated in a pit of squirming maggots and beetles while I laugh as they swim through your bowels." Her breath was heavy with loathing, her eyesight tinged red with rage. He seemed unfazed by her expletives, snapping the book shut.

"Cute," he repeated, before tossing the rest of the book into the brazier where it smoldered and burned. "I'm doing you a favor, you know. To become as ruthless as survival requires, you must have your past reshaped into an ideal nothingness." He was wrong. Survival? He wanted domination. He pulled the poker from the brazier once more, examining it offhandedly. She closed her eyes. She could endure torture, she knew she could. But he was not going to torture her out of a need of information.

He was going to torture her because he enjoyed it.

"We're going to play a game, you and I," he said, smiling his evil smile. He tapped the poker against her knee, and she put so much air into her next scream that all that came out was a strangled whimper. "You can take pain," he said, the smile widening. "That's good. Would you like to learn the rules?"

She spat blood at him in answer.

"Sweet little girlie, you. Reminds me of my daughter, back in Amarathine. 'Course, I never gave her the chance to grow up quite as privileged as you." He shifted the poker away.

"Every time you scream, see," He lifted a dagger from his belt enough to show a hint of blade. "I'm going to cut off a bit of your fingers. Perhaps a whole knuckle, even. Let's get rid of that famed prowess in battle, shall we?"


	7. Night of the Battle

**Alistair**

Breath laden with exertion, Alistair glared at yet another flight of stairs beyond the just entered room. Taking a moment to wipe the sweat and blood from his brow, he glanced out a nearby gaping hole in the wall that a projectile the size of his torso launched from yonder catapult had torn. A mixture of flickering torch and moonlight taunted him with momentary visions of ant-like skirmishes, and he was near to tearing his hair from his head with frustration of near inactivity—albeit an idleness riddled with darkspawn corpses—and a lack of knowledge whether his liege and lord lived or not. The brief lack of Fergus' viperous glower boring into his back indicated his thoughts were much akin, save that his subject of concern was most likely for his sister.

"I've told you already; she's out of our reach. You can't go against powers like Loghain and expect to escape without punishment. I'm sure she's having a nice, cozy nap in some cellar or something right now." Alistair said. He usually wasn't so irritable, but the accumulation of unsettling events since the damned Cousland siblings had shown up had made him snappy. Fergus returned his intense scowl to his back. If looks could kill, half the army would be dead by now. They might as well have been, save that Alistair, by some unknown blessing—and quite a lot of force from Loghain's guards had managed to persuade him to stay his hand. After the sudden ending of the war council meeting, Duncan had impressed with a certain intangible eeriness upon him that as a Grey Warden, what purpose for living he had before was irrelevant before the greater and nobler purpose of the Order, and Fergus had obeyed with a certain tempestuous compliance. He had not, as of yet, inevitably exploded, and Alistair thought that his eyes would be plastered to the back of his head with all of the time he spent glancing suspiciously at him.

His preoccupation left him vulnerable to the silently stalking darkspawn lurking just around a turn of the staircase, and he cursed without making an effort to silence it after Fergus decapitated it in an unusually graceful manner that involved him getting a face full of splattered blood. He spat on the floor and blinked.

"Um. Thanks." Alistair said. Fergus inclined his head coolly in a gesture he was rapidly becoming familiar with, and he sighed, taking a moment to rub his calf where Ceostre's trap had left aching wounds. His eyes traced the long, spiraling path of the endless, Maker-forsaken stairs, and he groaned as he began to ascend once more.

—

He lost track of how many floors they had cleared. Long ago had they lost the few sentries who had attempted to assist them in their mission, and he snorted in irony that he was probably having a harder time in what was supposed to be an easy and disappointing assignment than if he was actually down there fighting beside Duncan. What feeble conversation existed died out in favor of saving their breath for the endless climb. He motioned for Fergus to watch his back as he peered out of an arrow slit, straining for a glimpse of the battle below. The figures battling below were as tiny as specks of dust. He ached to be down there at the side of his fellow Grey Wardens, fighting for his country, his blood heated with glory, but instead he was cursed to climb this endless god-forsaken tower with a brooding phantom as silent (and deadly) as his sister. He had to be satisfied that the display Ceostre had put on had convinced Cailan to change his tactics, and grudgingly admitted that if the darkspawn horde was pushed back tonight, it would be thanks to her.

He pushed himself away from the arrow slit and strapped his shield to his back. Keeping his sword loose in his right hand, he took the torch from Fergus for his turn. Fergus moved to the front, his dark eyes burning as he passed, and Alistair sighed. His nose itched, but his hands were occupied and he could hardly scratch it. He hoped they were close to the top.

The last floor greeted them with a roar. An ogre, with skin as purple as a plum, charged at them as soon as Fergus nudged the door open. They both backed away hastily, and the tower shook as the ogre slammed against the door frame. Fergus gave it a few good stabs, and then they wasted valuable minutes clearing the door enough to pass. With many a grimace, they climbed over the mound of muscle and spikes.

"Find something to burn," Alistair said. "I'm going to keep a watch out for the signal."

They were granted a few moments of reprieve. When Alistair looked back it was to see an absurd mound consisting of a shattered table, ripped curtains, a few logs of kindling from a small fireplace in the back of the room, the severed limbs of a darkspawn, and shredded pages from a book Fergus had found. The sight was almost comical with said scavenger standing grim and serious next to it, and Alistair shrugged. It would have to do.

It was even more difficult to see what was going on below, this high up. He shifted his sword in his sweaty grip, reluctant to sheath it. The night wore on. Fergus kept watch by the door while he remained ever vigilant at the lip of a balcony exposed to the stars. While nothing but exhaustion threatened, Alistair found it hard to focus. He almost wished for something to sink his blade into just to clear his mind.

He saw the signal just as Fergus shouted his name in warning.

He threw himself down. An arrow went sailing over the edge of the railing, and he pitied whoever it would land on. He turned around to see Fergus decapitating the darkspawn archer.

"There must be another entrance to this level," Fergus shouted. Alistair searched the room for a door, and spotted another arrow notched at him from one hidden by shadow and darkness.

There was no time to grab his shield. He hefted Fergus the torch just as the arrow took him in the shoulder, piercing his chainmail with a sharp pain.

He grunted and pulled it out with an air of nonchalance that would do a Cousland proud.

And thus was the make-shift bonfire lit, not to start Loghain's mad dash to take the horde from behind, but to signal Cailan to do his bloody best to get himself and his army out of the hellish melee taking place below. After all, even though Loghain had demanded her imprisoned to cool her fire, the King had been impressed upon that this skirmish was futile—by Fergus, if not his sister. Calian had not been happy, but even Alistair had been convinced. As his liege fought for his life below, so too did two brothers of the Grey fight for theirs above.

**Ceostre**

By the time she had lost but a few of her fingers, her mind had finally cracked under the distress. When Howe noticed her lack of response, he finally retired his practices with a tender promise of continuation and went off to rest. One by one the guards filed out, until only the mage—looking noticeably sickened—was left. His lips were moving, as though he was speaking, but she heard no sound, only a ringing that had been her one sympathetic companion keeping such painful vigil with her. She saw naught through the haze that veiled her vision, and eventually he left.

Howe obviously thought—with well-justified reason—that he carried out his sadistic pleasure with enough skill that a physical restraint was not required for the night. The mage had probably sprang a nasty trap lying in wait should she somehow manage to scrape together the will to stumble away, but the lack of guard regardless stung her pride. Supine and akimbo, her chair and bonds having long been taken from her, she stared sightlessly into the dark in a comatose paralyzation. The last dregs of blood draining from her wounds had long dried into a stiff crust, and even the mere action of blinking hurt and disturbed flakes of the stuff.

Having already been impressed the lesson that groaning and shifting was absolutely a bloody horrible idea, she stayed like that for the longest time, unmoving, unthinking, as though if she never thought beyond the _now,_ she'd be spared the inevitable pain the future had for her. The mere moments had a throbbing torment, a different kind, undemanding, gradual, slow, and there on the cold, hard floor stained with her lifeblood, she learned to appreciate it, exquisite and yet soft. There was a beauty in it, pain its traveled path and Howe its avatar. To the observer, one would notice that one often took refuge from torture in madness, but to the beholden it was a sharp and cruel thing to be appreciated. A gentle breath ghosted past her clenched teeth, and it was the last sign of life that she emitted for some time.

What felt like a fortnight later, a shuffling sound and the shifting of metal roused her from her numb, death-like state. There was a sniffing sound at her hair, a growl as though from a hound or dog, and the faintest flicker of eyelash against a linen-pale cheek that indicated that, in fact, her broken and ruined body was indeed still alive. Her eyes wouldn't focus, showing her shadows and doubles of demons that lurked in blurs and illusions, and she closed them once more, lacking the strength to do anything about the being that so disturbed her peace.

It grasped her hair in a brutal, talon-like grip, and _that _at least granted a measure of clarity to her vision when her eyes shot open and a scream tore itself from her still kicking throat. The cold air was a slap to the face as she was dragged outside and salt to her multiple wounds, and she screamed again, a thin, harsh thing utterly devoid of strength and passion. She looked up, struggling to make out the silhouette in the darkness pulling her after it.

The campfire light shifted, shedding just enough for her to discern a figure. Her blood ran ice in her veins.

Darkspawn.

Even as she convulsed in the agony its ruthless pace inflicted upon her, she turned her unfocused gaze upon the blazing Tower of Ishal spiraling above the moon and torch lit Ostagar, and her heart gave a painful squeeze when she remembered that that fiery structure was where she, Fergus, and Alistair were to have been stationed. _Maker…_

There was only one person she cared for enough to cause her heart to clench in such a different sense of anguish, and, Ferelden's monarch and armies be damned, that person was her brother, Fergus. What little faith she had in the Chantry's preaching of the Maker had been crushed by Howe, and although she had since only used His and His bride's name as a habitual expletive, in that moment she was praying in whatever deity and heathen god cared to listen.

_Fergus... Please, let him not be—_

Her head caught against a particularly large rock, and stars burst behind her eyelids. The darkspawn gave an impatient wrench, and she drowned in white, fiery agony.

**Author's Note**

An update? I know, I shocked myself. Please forgive for the relative shortness of it; I felt as though this was a perfect spot to end the battle of Ostagar, and I'm still getting back into the hang of writing this. I'm actually going back and replaying DA:O _again, _so hopefully I won't leave the next chapter sitting for so long.

P.S. Be warned, the title of this fanfic may be changed as of the next chapter to something of lesser cheesiness. Sorry for navigation issues. Also, apologies for grammatical errors! I'll try to be more thorough.


End file.
